In Blood
by LizzehBoo
Summary: Draco stumbles into Zacharius Smith's murder, and he becomes the main suspect in a case that has more twists and turns than ever expected. Draco tries to convince Harry - the lead worker on the case - of his innocence... EWE DraHa
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** In Blood  
**Rating:** T+**  
****Spoilers:** Compliant with all but Epilogue.  
**Summary:** Draco stumbles into Zacharius Smith's murder, and he becomes the main suspect in a case that has more twists and turns than ever expected. Draco tries to convince Harry - the lead worker on the case - of his innocence, but Draco's still got dark secrets of his own that could destroy him before he can prove himself.

...

Chapter One

"Fuck," he hissed at the scene before him, his wand falling from his hand and rolling across the creaky wooden floor, the light from the tip of it casting dramatic shadows upon the walls as it slid away from him.

His eyes remained on the figure in front of him. Even though he had been plunged into complete darkness, he could still see the body, slumped against the leg of the dining room table, the dark red stains donning his clothing, the glossed, lifeless eyes almost seeming to stare at him, and the blood, oh the blood. He stumbled backwards, into the china cabinet, and he could hear the tinkle of glasses against each other and the shattering of a fallen plate. Draco's hand lifted to his lips as his stomach lurched at the scene, and his knees buckled under him, sending him to the floor. He couldn't believe what he had seen. His body seemed almost unnaturally twisted against the leg of the table, and his lips were bright scarlet, as if they'd been slathered in rouge. He was slit right down the middle, from just below his Adam's apple, all the way to his belly button, as if they'd traced the line of his button down. The cut was jagged in places, and the things spilling from him were of a sickening stench that made his eyes roll back in his head. His mind fought with him, desperate to turn off the images that plagued him and would more than likely see for the rest of his life. After the war, after everything he'd seen… this was the worst. He was sure of it.

The note remained in his pocket, scrawled in his slanted writing. _Drinks, my place. Z.S._

Draco felt his breath shudder from him, as if he was emptying out his lungs, before he crawled past the cold body of Zacharius Smith, retrieving his wand with trembling hands. He turned back to him with one final look before racing out the door, into the freezing winter air that nearly burned his tear-stained face.

Zacharius was dead. The thought shot through him like a bolt of lightning, and he nearly collapsed into the snow, stumbling over his own black loafers, his trenchcoat catching a bit of the white powder, but he kept rushing forward, sobbing desperately in spite of himself, cursing and choking and ever-still running away from the Smith house, out to the Portkey, and back to Wizarding London.

He could still see the soft blond hair, splayed over his forehead, and his chocolate eyes that once held that haughty spark that he always swore against having. The idea of it was devastating.

…

Harry drummed his fingers on the desk, eying over the documents before him carefully, trying to tune out the expected chaos that was going around him. His lips thinned in concentration.

"There's not much to this report, Finnigan," he finally sighed at the agent in front of him, dressed in a neat tan suit with a green tie, his dark brown coat still dusted with snow from outside. Seamus rubbed his hands together, looking frustrated. "I don't know if there's anything we can do with this."

"We haven't completed it yet. We just now got the information of Smith's murder. Its brutal there, Potter. You wouldn't believe it."

"That's the problem here, Seamus," Harry replied simply. "Are you sure this is even our investigation? Smith appears to have been practically gutted. He lives out in the middle of nowhere. He could have very well been attacked by a Muggle foe."

Seamus shook his head. "I don't think so. He had his wand nearby. It leads us to believe it was in his hand before he was killed. And to get that close to a wizard with a conventional weapon—"

"It's unlikely, I agree," Harry said. "But to go to this degree… most wizards are a bit cleaner about murder." He furrowed his brows at the photos taken at the scene, running a finger over it. "Why were they so brutal?"

"I don't know," Seamus said with a shrug. "But we both know how Smith was back in school. No one ever really knew what side he was on. Flew the coop before the battle at Hogwarts. Maybe he just got on the bad side of someone. It wasn't exactly hard for him then. I doubt that changed."

"No reason to go this far," Harry replied sympathetically, closing the folder with a hard frown. "Anything else?"

"There were some footprints that we've analyzed to and from the house. Very nice pair of loafers, apparently. We think they're only sold at Twilfitt and Tatting's, so we have some Aurors going to see who's bought them. Not much of a lead, but everything else is flawless. We couldn't even find anything out of place. He has no neighbors, and even if he did, it's doubtful they would be any nosy parkers, especially with someone like Smith."

Harry stood, adjusting his button-down, which had gotten quite askew in a long day of work, and gathered his blazer and coat from the back of his chair. "I want to see this for myself. I'm sure there's something else. Contact Susan Bones and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Get her to give me all the information she has on this case. And contact my secretary and tell her to have a Portkey ready for me when I get outside."

"Yes sir," Seamus said as Harry made for the door. Then, "Harry—"

He turned back to him. "Yes?"

"You don't think… its Death Eaters, do you?"

Harry frowned again. "I don't think Aurors would be required if it wasn't."

Seamus paled significantly before Harry stepped out of his office, leaving him behind. He really didn't want to think of it, himself. It had been seven years since the end of the war and things had been relatively quiet since then. He had been pleased to experience times of peace, to focus on just living his life without the constant threat of Voldemort leering over his shoulder. The Death Eaters that had not gone straight to Azkaban seemed to have reform, though Aurors were almost constantly patrolling them. When Harry took charge of the Auror Department, it had been six years of them under constant Auror patrol, and even as someone who had taken his fair share of Death Eater attacks, he had the patrol slackened. He was starting to think he had made a mistake and, as Ron had so quaintly put it, "been too trusting and bloody foolish."

He was already beginning to feel a migraine at the back of his skull as he threw on his coat and scarf and tugged his leather gloves over his hands. The Ministry was bustling, even at the time of night it was. Given, many of the higher officers had taken leave for the evening, but there were plenty still at work, especially in his department as a whole. Magical Law was interfered with constantly, regardless of whether Death Eaters were on the prowl or not. There were the constant dealings-with of underage magic (typically by accident) and regular misuse of it all together, especially with Muggles. The Aurors were not necessarily required for minor cases, but big ones occasionally came to their attention, and Harry spent more time at work than he did anywhere else.

It was actually quite a vicious circle. He was addicted to his job, because he really didn't have anything better to do, and he didn't have anything better to do because he was addicted to his job. He had dated Ginny for a few years after school, but it didn't work out well in the end, and after a few bitter fights where ugly words were said, they decided friendship suited them better. Their relationship actually did work better that way and he'd had way too many drinks at the local pub with her to let her go completely from his heart. Still, he would drag himself to work every day and stay overtime, even when there wasn't a case, because surely, something would pop up. And after all his hard work training to get there, Harry figured it would be only logical that he wanted to embrace it.

A case like this hadn't come in a long time, however, and Harry was actually surprised to see such brutality done to someone he once, albeit grudgingly, considered his ally. He'd been no stranger to death over the years, but something done to such a disgraceful degree just sickened his stomach, and he just knew Death Eaters had to be involved.

"Potter, going home?" Terry Boot asked, looking like he was headed home himself, an armful of scrolls in one hand, a briefcase in the other.

"No, I've actually got a case to check out."

"This late?"

He nodded. "Head home, Boot. You look positively exhausted. I'll fill you in on all the juicy details in the morning."

"It better be over Firewhiskey. Don't stay up too late, Potter. You've been pretty busy too."

"They say there's no rest for the wicked," Harry responded. "I suppose that makes me wicked?"

"No, there's just no rest for anyone anymore, mate. Goodnight, Potter."

With that, Terry stepped into the Floo and vanished. Harry envied him a little – getting a good night's rest and all – but he could feel the adrenaline of a new case keeping him moving, so Harry continued his way out to the Portkey that was provided for him.

"It's all ready for you," Gloriana, Harry's secretary said, her black hair starting to fall messily from its bun in the cold winter wind. "Will you be requiring anything else, sir?"

"For the last time, Gloriana, you can call me Harry. And please have someone owl me the results of the tests they're doing."

"Yes sir – er – Harry."

…

Even after all the years of using them, Harry still wasn't completely used to Portkeys. He straightened his glasses on his nose, pushing hair out of his eyes and to the side, where it had been neatly combed that morning. As he approached the Smith home, a rather large, but lonely looking house sitting in the middle of a snowy field, gloomily lit in the moonlight. The trees looked weighed down with the powder, creeping heavily over the ground, casting blackened shadows upon the dust and overall adding to the chill of the area. Harry could feel it in his gut, the awful feeling that something seriously terrifying had happened in the Smith home – that it really wasn't his home, not anymore.

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!"

Harry groaned. The Daily Prophet was already there, trying to get inside. It let him wondering if they had ever been decent in their entire life. The Smith family would be devastated to learn of their son's death. He doubted having it splayed all over the news would help.

"I'm not answering any questions at this time," he announced, the words rolling off his tongue as if he had said them a million times before – and he probably had – "Please, return home for now. We will release information when it becomes clear to us. Thank you."

He tromped through the snow until he reached a still somewhat buried footpath and made his way to the front door. It opened before he could reach for the handle, and Ron stood in front of him, tall and gangly as always, but severely spooked. Each freckle on his face stood out in stunning quality against his pallid skin, his blue eyes looking lighter and faded as he pulled Harry inside, slamming the door. In the foyer, Harry could hear sounds from the other room, of Aurors and probably medical personnel.

"Ron, are you alright?" Harry felt the need to ask as his friend slumped against the wall with a sigh.

"You wouldn't believe it, Harry. This is just brutal, mate. I know Smith was a bit dodgy, but there was no reason for this. No reason at all."

Harry frowned. He hadn't seen Ron so shaken up in a long time. He imagined seeing photos wasn't giving him the full experience.

"Smith still here?" he asked.

Ron shook his head. "No, he was off for an autopsy about fifteen minutes ago." Ron looked nauseous. "Place still stinks of death though. This was personal, Harry. It had to be."

"Ron, go home. Get a drink. You could use it," Harry said. "I'll handle it from here. We've got plenty of Aurors here."

"No way, mate. Hermione would be asking me all kinds of questions anyway. You know how she is."

"I'm sure she'll hear plenty of information about it at work in the morning."

"But that's never enough. You know that. Besides," Ron looked at his watch. "It's already past two – it is morning."

"Huh," Harry said, blinking. "Didn't realize it was that late already."

"You wouldn't. You're always holed up in that office of yours."

"Careful, Ron, you're sounding like your sister."

"That was very unfortunate, you know."

Harry nodded. He did believe that to be true. "Get some rest, Ron. One of us needs to."

"Yeah," Ron replied, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I'm just not so sure it's me."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"And you're positive on this?" Harry asked, eyeing the test results dubiously. He stifled a yawn creeping in the back of his throat. It was seven a.m., and he hadn't slept yet.

Seamus nodded. "Yes, the only pair of loafers in that size were sold to Draco Malfoy on the seventh of December."

"Hm," Harry nodded. "That was only a week ago."

Seamus nodded again. "What do you want to do, Potter?"

Something felt odd, looking at the receipt and test results, and he scanned them over again, as if he didn't believe it. "I'm not sure that Malfoy would be responsible for something like this."

Seamus actually scoffed. "Really, Potter? He was a downright tosser in school. Seems likely to me."

"It was because of his mother that I actually managed to defeat Voldemort, Seamus. The Malfoys ended up being quite an asset in the war-"

"Narcissa Malfoy, maybe. The men in the family were pretty cowardly though." Seamus scowled at the thought.

Harry leaned on one hand. _Cowardly indeed,_ he thought. Malfoy hadn't had the nerve to kill Dumbledore for the sake of his family – Harry found it a little hard to believe that he would brutally murder Zacharius Smith. Of course, it had been quite a few years since the end of the war. Harry didn't even know Draco Malfoy anymore. And considering his footprint was the only one found at the scene of the crime, it would be rather stupid to brush it off just because of something Draco, thankfully, had failed to do in the past. He scratched at his chin, feeling a good brush of stubble after his sleepless night and sighed, finally.

"Alright. He works near Twillfit and Tattings, doesn't he?"

"Yes sir. He opened up a potions store in the middle of Diagon Alley. It's quite successful."

"Alright. I'll go talk with him."

"Harry." Seamus crossed his arms. "You've been pretty kind to Death Eaters, considering your past with them. Don't give him just a slap on the wrist. I'll lose all my respect for you."

"Seamus," Harry returned, glaring over the rims of his glasses. "I'm not out to let Death Eaters get away with murder, but I'm definitely not going to be the kind to accuse an innocent of doing so without enough evidence. Right now, we don't have enough to convict him, and he's innocent until proven guilty. And if you're going to act like the Ministry officials I had to deal with when I was younger, you can bet my respect for you will be lost as well."

Seamus swallowed, looking a little guilty. "Fair enough, Potter."

"Do me a favor, Seamus. Keep the Prophet at bay. They've been knocking at my door all morning. You can keep your mouth shut on the case for that long, can't you?"

…

Draco tilted his head back, the small vile in his hand dripping a searing, red liquid down his throat. The taste was bittersweet, slithering down his esophagus with a burn like Firewhiskey. He scowled, swallowing it and depositing the vile back into his robes.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

He turned to the door in his office, a young boy with sandy brown hair and large blue eyes was standing with a box full of cauldrons. He stared rather blankly at him for a moment, feeling his heart slow and his panic dissolve into nothing.

"Yes, Peter?"

"How would you like these sorted? By size? By finish?"

Draco eyed them. "Looks like they're either copper or brass. Sort them by both. Copper on the left, Brass on the right. Copper will be a little more expensive. Thank you, Peter." He was curt, but helpful, judging by Peter's expression.

"It's my job, sir."

"Oh, and do resort the eye of newt? We had a sale yesterday, and they've been jumbled quite badly."

"Yes sir. Oh… sir… are you alright?"

Draco blinked slowly, straightening his robes. He could feel the tension slipping from his shoulders, warm and comfortable, before slipping into absolutely nothing, which was far more bliss than Draco could currently feel. With it, he found himself caring less and less about cauldrons and eyes of newt and the little shop boy at all.

"I'll be out shortly to help you. Just let me reorganize a few things in my office."

Peter nodded, shuffling away from the door, the cauldrons clanking and clunking in the box as he walked. Draco quietly shut the door, just for a moment, falling against it, feeling sick. Zacharius' dead form flashed in his mind, sending a shiver down his spine, and he felt sweat pricking at the nape of his neck. Then, after a moment, his blood felt like it was on fire before immediately numbing, and his nerves vanished from him again, even as his eyes lingered on the Daily Prophet, the headline reading **MURDER: ZACHARIUS SMITH FOUND DEAD IN HOME**. There wasn't much to the article – Draco had read it three times in hopes of seeing a connection, but the Prophet clearly hadn't gotten their hands on any info. Draco sighed, opening the door and sauntering into the store.

"Peter, how's it coming?"

"Mr. Malfoy, I really can't tell the difference between these," Peter sighed, looking rather frustrated and childish.

Draco smiled in spite of himself. Peter was a Hogwarts student that needed some extra money to help out at home. So he had worked out with the Headmaster that he would be Floo'd to Diagon Alley in order to take a job, as long as his continued to excel in his studies. It was winter break at the moment, and Draco had to admit that it was nice having the boy around during the mornings, when it was slow. It allowed him time to get organized and get his shop to a much more pristine condition. The reason his shop was so successful was because it didn't reek like the Apothecary, and was far more organized than the Cauldron Shop. He sniffed the air and nodded, knowing that the plants he had bred kept the shop smelling nice, sitting in pots right by the door.

"The copper ones should have more of a ruddy appearance, Peter. The brass ones are shinier too. I prefer to use copper for long-brewing potions, and brass for shorter ones."

"Hmm…" the boy scrutinized the two and began sorting them with a bit more ease.

"That's it. How are your Potions grades, by the way?" Draco asked, though he really wasn't bothered by the boy's grades. He was just making small talk.

"Quite good," he responded as Draco lumbered to the front desk, wiping it down. "It does help that I've got all the best equipment free of charge."

"I think you've earned some good cauldrons and ingredients. Not to mention a few tips from quite a Potions master," Draco said, smirking. He felt pride swell in him, only to burn briefly in his chest and then evaporate completely.

"That's something I don't understand, Mr. Malfoy. You're excellent with Potions, far better than our Potions master. Why aren't you working at Hogwarts?"

Draco was no longer really paying attention, as his eyes were cast outside the window to an approaching figure. "I've got a rather complicated past with Hogwarts, Peter. Why don't we leave it at that?"

"Yes sir." Agreeable as always. Peter was a bit of a kiss-arse too. Draco loved it. It meant things got done correctly.

The bell atop the door tinkled as Harry Potter stepped in, his boots still wet from snow, looking a little worse for wear than was typically expected from a public figure like Harry Potter.

Draco hadn't seen the Potter boy face-to-face in a long time. He'd made sure of it. Sure, Potter had been all over the Daily Prophet. He'd worked a few big cases around the Ministry, and had a very public break up with the youngest Weasley, who Draco couldn't care to remember the name of at the moment. His eyes seemed to have gotten a bit darker, probably with lack of sleep, considering the bags underneath them. Still, his lashes were long and dark, fanning over them rather gracefully, made more obvious behind the rims of his glasses. Under the bulk of his coat, Draco couldn't really tell how much muscle he had gained, but Harry Potter wasn't as thin as he was in school. He was far from out of shape, however. Years of being an Auror were obvious in the wide line of his shoulders. His skin was pale, but flushed from the outside wind. Still, just as many were, Draco's eyes were drawn to the scar on Harry's forehead, which had seemed, oddly enough to have faded substantially since the war. He knew it would always be there – much like the scar on Draco's left forearm from the Dark Mark – a constant reminder of what they had both been through. He hated seeing Harry Potter, not only because he was obnoxious, but because he reminded him of the war. After all, he was the symbol of it. How could he not?

He nodded a greeting to Peter, turning to Draco. "Mr. Malfoy, do you have a moment? I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Business or pleasure, Mr. Potter?" Draco responded simply, folding the cloth he was using to clean the desk with neatly and placing it aside.

Harry looked a little annoyed. "Business, I'm afraid."

"Then why don't we take this to my office, hm? Peter, watch the store."

"Yes sir."

Draco gestured to his office, leading Harry through the many shelves and to his small, quaint office that was rather humbly fashioned for a Malfoy. He didn't have a lot of space to work with, after all.

…

Draco Malfoy looked far different to Harry than he had expected. The once lean and smug-looking Quidditch player looked a bit lost and almost gaunt. His cheekbones were sunken in, his eyes glazed and almost black, when they had once been icy silver. There was something dangerous about the complete lack of anything behind them, and it chilled Harry to the bone to simply look him in the eye. He had focused so much on his appearance in school, that it was shocking to Harry to see him look so unkempt. While every hair had its place in his boyhood, it seemed lazily slicked back, dry, ugly strands hanging in his eyes. It gave him the look of a wild animal, ready for attack, and yet too lethargic to even try. His robes, though clearly made for him, seemed to swallow him whole as he took a seat at his desk, folding his long, bony fingers in front of him, expectantly waiting for something. Malfoy looked almost… frail. Frail and yet oddly horrifying.

"Yes… Mr. Malfoy," Harry started, taking a seat.

"Enough with the pleasantries, Potter," he interrupted, dropping the act, his voice laced with venom. "I think we both know its complete shite."

Harry frowned, feeling his forehead wrinkle a bit. "Fair enough, Malfoy, but considering you know my business, I'd think it'd be wise to be more respectful."

He gave a scathing, humorless laugh, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. "Nothing like a Gryffindor to show how to be self-righteous. Just get on with it. Why are you here?"

Harry's eyes scanned the desk in front of him, the Prophet sitting elegantly to the side. "Well, I see you've heard about Zacharius Smith's alleged murder."

Draco was a slate devoid of emotion. "I don't really care to believe anything the Prophet prints nowadays. I'm assuming this involves me somehow?"

"Malfoy, we found your footprints in the snow at the scene of the crime," Harry stated bluntly.

Draco remained unphased, though his eyebrows perked a bit. Harry was actually alarmed at how cool the boy before him was being. He may not have been positive about Draco's involvement with Smith's murder, but he knew Draco had been there. His playing it off as if it was nothing made him seem guiltier if anything. After all, there were plenty of Death Eaters that had heartlessly made kills in the past, and Draco had never seemed to be one of them.

"Smith and I met for drinks once in awhile," Draco replied smoothly. "Certainly you're not basing this entire case off of a footprint."

"Malfoy, we need to know if he was alive when you got there."

Draco produced a handkerchief from his sleeve, holding up a finger with the other hand as he coughed into the it. He dabbed his lips and returned it to whence it came. Harry blinked, thinking he caught sight of blood on the edge of it.

"May I see that?"

"No, you may not," Draco retorted coolly. "I don't see why my handkerchief is of any business of yours."

"You never answered my question," Harry returned to the topic at hand, knowing he couldn't legally take it without Draco's permission. He would have to keep pressing for answers.

Draco's voice still had not changed at all, and the evenness of it all actually shook Harry at his core. _He couldn't have done this…_. Could he? Draco cleared his throat, looking Harry straight in the eye. "I didn't kill Zacharius Smith."

Harry's lips thinned substantially. He hadn't answered the question at all. "Would you be willing to say that under Veritaserum?"

"Sod off, Potter," Draco responded, yet he was almost robotic, lifeless. "I shouldn't have to prove anything to you. Last I checked, you weren't really pleasant to those types that use trickery to get information. You're one of those bleeding hearts that thinks you're better than that. So prove yourself right. Take me at my word."

"Your word isn't very trustworthy, Malfoy," Harry grumbled. "Even when we were boys, you were lying through your teeth. And Merlin forbid you couldn't, less your father do it for you."

Draco had his wand drawn within moments, but Harry had his ready to counter immediately after. Still, something was lacking in Draco's eyes that disturbed Harry – the spark of a fight or even of anger. Even with his wand drawn, he still appeared rather comfortably numb. It was as if he had only drawn it to keep up appearances, which was both infuriating and disturbing at the same time. This was not the Draco Malfoy he knew in school, the fiery, snobby boy that had way more bark than bite. This was not the boy that panicked in his sixth year of school and was found sobbing over a bathroom sink, emotionally overwhelmed. This wasn't the boy that was afraid to kill Dumbledore, so much so that he was frozen in place.

That was what scared him the most. Without the fear or fire behind Malfoy's eyes - it left the possibility that he damn well could have killed Smith. He didn't really care for Draco Malfoy's moral value, or anything like that, it would just be admitting a gigantic mistake that Harry could have made in trusting people like him.

It took a long moment before Harry lowered his wand, still keeping it in his hand, however, it still pressed gently against his hand on the desk. Draco leaned on one hand, keeping his wand lazily between his fingers. Harry scooted a bit closer, feeling tense.

"_Mister_ Malfoy, allow me to remind you that what I say goes in the Auror Department. I may not have enough evidence to have you arrested right now, but I can certainly have you brought in for questioning. I need to know what happened the night of Zacharius Smith's murder. Don't you understand? If you don't tell me right now, you're the main suspect! I don't want to think that you've done this, Malfoy, but I can't ignore what's right in front of me."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Hm… there's a bit of a nick in my wand. I'll need to get that fixed."

Harry felt fury blaze him into a stunned silence, his mouth hanging open.

He couldn't believe it. He couldn't bloody believe Malfoy's gall. Never in his life had he expected him to have the nerve to completely ignore something so serious. Malfoy was definitely more bark than bite, but when it came down to things that mattered to him, like his life, he tended to pay attention, especially if he was afraid of the result.

"H-how can you…?" Harry's words failed him, but he mustered them with all his mentality. "How can you possibly be so careless? Maybe you actually did kill Smith!"

"I told you I didn't," Draco replied flatly. "I thought we were done. Or would you prefer to continue your onslaught of insults on me?"

"You—you knew Smith! Are you really telling me his death means nothing to you?"

And there it was. For a moment, a very quick moment, a flicker of pain crossed the boy's eyes. His jaw tightened, and those eyes were cast away. When they returned to Harry's, they were the same, glossy, emotionless orbs from before.

Harry wasn't sure what he was dealing with.

"I think it's time you should go," Draco said, and his voice made Harry's blood run cold. He laced his fingers, resting his chin atop his hands. "If you are expecting some sort of tearful confession from me, you are severely mistaken."

"Malfoy-"

"Better yet, Potter. If you want to go chasing Death, why don't you look behind you from time to time? It seems to follow you around a lot more than me."

"You can't just-"

"Have a good day, Mister Potter." Draco stood and opened the door, holding it open for him. "Do come back sometime. Actually, please don't."

Harry bristled, but knew nothing else would come from his little chat with Malfoy. He glowered at him, though Draco provided nothing in return.

"Fair enough, Malfoy. Just remember this once the other Ministry officials start coming around here. Compared to them, you might find my company not as bad as you think. And remember I'm one of the only ones who was willing to even give you a chance. Remember the others don't feel that way, so if you want to be given a chance, you may want to watch your manners." Harry stormed out of the store, only giving a brief nod of goodbye to the young shopkeep, who was gazing at them like a confused owl.

He heard the bell clang behind him as the door slammed shut.

The air outside actually felt warmer without Malfoy's steely, emotionless gaze on him.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and made his way down the street.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The door to Draco's flat slammed shut behind him with a clatter and he fell back against it, knitting his brows and squeezing his eyes shut. His head throbbed violently and he rubbed two fingers against his temple.

"It's taken five vials today. That's twice as much as usual."

And he could feel his nerves percolating under the surface, the warm tingle dissolving into the cold grip of fear in his stomach, the nauseating sorrow that overwhelmed his senses and left him trembling against the door. He slid down the door to the carpeted floor, and buried his face in his hands. His mind was suddenly littered with images he was trying to forget. Zacharius' dead body, gutted and bloody and terrifying. Azkaban's ugly cell that his father once occupied, grimy and dirty and surrounded with Dementors. Harry Potter's determined emerald eyes, boring into him with something a little less than a sneer, and the slight spark of fear within them. Then Zacharius flooded his mind again, and Draco wailed and forced himself up and into his kitchen.

"I know I have one more somewhere," he murmured, his eyes pricking and burning with un-cried tears. He dug around in a few unorganized drawers until he found the small red vile, uncorked it, and let the contents slip down his throat. He leaned against the counter as the effects made themselves known. Zacharius' image began to vanish from his mind. Harry Potter was no longer a worry or even a minor inconvenience. He let out a long sigh of relief as his emotions slipped away from him once again.

"I'll have to brew some more in the morning, I suppose," Draco said to himself.

He wasn't sure he'd make it until morning.

His emotions were strung out after so many jarring events in such a short timespan. He figured it was natural to need to calm himself down after something like that. Draco, however, had not been particularly emotionally stable beforehand. The war did not end for the Malfoys, as it did for many others, with Voldemort's defeat. After the taxing emotional journey that was the war came multiple lawsuits and investigations of the Malfoy family and their estates. His father and mother avoided Azkaban sentences by ratting out their fellow Death Eaters. Loyalty was only important when convenient in a group like the Death Eaters, so Draco was fairly sure that, though angry, the remaining Death Eaters would have done the same thing to avoid prison time or worse. For that, and a hefty sum of money, the Malfoys were freed. They were far beyond poverty level, but had to leave the Manor for something a bit more inexpensive, and Draco finally moved out on his own after school to his humble flat near Diagon Alley.

Draco had returned to Hogwarts after that in hopes of finishing up his Seventh Year of school, but he would lie awake at nights, staring blankly above him, wondering who he was, what came next, what his purpose was. All his life, he'd been told that the war was inevitable, and that being a Death Eater was his only option. He had prepared all he could to help his family. And then, Potter won the war. Everything Draco had fought for had been yanked out from under his feet. And his impact on Hogwarts had not been forgotten. Every day, he trudged through the corridors to glowers and sneers from other students. Many muttered choice words under their breath when they passed him in the hallway, and after a particularly brutal report on Death Eaters in the Daily Prophet, Draco had found himself on the wrong end of a three-to-one fight.

He remembered withering against one of the dungeon walls, looking into the faces of three brutal students and a crowd of others cheering them on, and bowing his head.

"Stop! Stop all of this now!"

Neville Longbottom had broken through the group and stood protectively in front of Draco.

"Longbottom! What are you interrupting for? Shouldn't you want to knock Malfoy around too, after what happened?"

"Malfoy has nothing to do with what happened to my family-"

"But what about-"

"Do you really think that hurting him is going to bring back the people we've lost? Do you really think that great wizards like Dumbledore would find any honor in this? You're acting more like Death Eaters than he is!"

The crowd shrinked away with their proverbial tails between their legs, leaving Draco behind, bruised and broken.

"Here. Are you alright?" Neville turned around and offered a hand to Draco.

He batted it out of the way. "I don't need your charity." He then pulled himself up and stalked down the hallway, not letting anyone see the tears that were welling in his eyes.

To have a Longbottom stand up for him was a bigger blow to the pride than anything Draco had ever known. And without his pride, he had nothing.

It had led to so many questions and so little answers. Draco had eventually decided on being a Potions Master as a career, but still, his life had felt rather… incomplete. He could feel the deep longing in his chest to prove himself, to show the world that looked down on him that he wasn't all bad. That he wasn't a Death Eater. That Draco Malfoy was _somebody_ after the war ended.

That was when he'd stumbled upon _Validus Venenum_, a large, dusty old book that, by its wear, seemed to be the only copy in existence. He had been travelling in Romania during his last year at a Wizarding University and had casually made his way into a precarious, weathering book shop owned by a man with a large pointed nose and knitted black brows, raised high on his bald head. His lips were drawn into a sinister smirk filled with crooked, stained teeth and lined with a dark black mustache that crept along his lip and made his teeth jut violently downward, like fangs. He was one of the most menacing looking men Draco had come across in a long time, especially after many of the Death Eaters were imprisoned. Still, as his gnarled, bony fingers curled around the spine of the book outstretched to him, Draco couldn't help but reach for it.

"It's 3000 Galleons," he had said simply when inquired about the price, and Draco nearly dropped the book in incredulity.

"You're barking!" Draco hissed.

"Take it or leave it. No skin off my nose."

He had it. Draco knew he did. But it would be a huge chunk of his savings. And yet…

He flipped through the book in thought, and his eyes traced over the elaborate writing detailing a calming drought of sorts – except the ingredients were different. It seemed to be much more potent.

Draco didn't buy the book that day.

He bought it the day his father died, three days after his graduation from the Wizarding University.

He told himself as he relinquished the funds that the reason why was because he'd come into a hefty sum at his father's inheritance, but he knew that wasn't the case. He had held himself calmly and efficiently through all the sudden will meetings and police meetings and tending to his grieving mother, but he could feel the panic squeezing his lungs, making it hard to breathe, and after three calming droughts, he was still feeling overly strung out and desperate. The recipe for the potion in that book played over and over in his mind, but he didn't know the exact details of them – it had been a little less than a year since he had seen it, and merely glimpsed at it at the time. But for some reason, his mind decided to focus on that book and that recipe and the fact that he absolutely had to have it.

Lucius Malfoy had committed suicide. At least, that was what the examiners determined.

Draco had found it to be the most bizarre turn of events. His father seemed to have been doing better. The war had been over for about five years, and he and Draco's mother were living fine off of his inheritance and savings. Most, if not all, of his Dark Magic artifacts had been confiscated, but as they were carried away, his father had seemed more relieved than anything to see them go. He had seemed perfectly fine, even though he wasn't particularly pleased with the new world. The Malfoys didn't fit into a world where Voldemort wasn't reigning. They didn't fit into a world where Pure Bloods no longer reigned….

Draco wasn't sure why his father suddenly offed himself, but he thought that might have had something to do with it.

Draco's life had become a living hell after that. His mother grew deadly quiet after his father passed away, sitting on the daybed of their home, staring out over the yard with glazed blue eyes. Draco had tried everything in his power to rouse her, but she stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped bothering with life all together. He had no choice but to have her checked into the mental ward at St. Mungo's. It had left him to deal with all the legality issues and anything else that happened to the Malfoy family. He took the brunt of their Death Eater shame.

The Potions book helped. It hadn't taken long for Draco to perfect the calming draught that had caught his attention, and as the ruby-colored liquid washed over his tongue and down his throat, he had suddenly felt every emotion that he fought against, every feeling of shame, grief, worry, fear, it all squelched down into nothing, which was oddly relieving. The first time he took it, however, his entire body went numb, and he'd spent the entire day lying on his bed, unable to move from the spot. Eventually, he began to gather a tolerance, but it had taken some time.

"Now it's six vials a day," Draco said quietly to the empty house, "And I need to brew more."

Of course, with the way he was feeling, he really didn't see it as that big of a deal.

…

"He was much too dodgy with you, Harry. He has to be guilty."

"We don't have evidence to prove that, Ron," Harry sighed, his eyelids feeling heavy as he took a swig of Firewhiskey. "I agree that he's probably not an innocent little lamb, but I don't have any proof that he's a murderer either."

The Three Broomsticks was pretty empty, with the exception of a few wizards looking for a little bit to drink before heading home to families. Harry and Ron always agreed to meet there if they wanted drinks. It was nostalgic and Madame Rosmerta was still as gorgeous as she had been in their youth – if not just a little gray. Ron downed another shot, and was already pretty red in the face from a few others, leaning on one hand.

"He's always been such a prat, Harry. Why not just arrest him? No one else will care."

Harry glared at Ron, knowing that it was only the alcohol talking. "I'm running the department in pursuit of justice. I'm not going to use my power to get what I want."

"I tell you this, Harry. If he did do that kind of brutality to Smith, he deserves whatever he gets. I don't care if Smith was a bit dodgy himself. To kill someone like that… just to gut him… it's inhuman."

Harry felt queasy and decided to change the subject. "I talked to Andromeda the other day. She says Teddy's growing more and more every day."

"Oh, really? He's what, seven now?"

Harry nodded. "I need to go see him. It's been a few months. I promised myself I'd be around a lot."

"You've been busy with work. He'll understand."

"Ron, he's seven. How much did you understand when you were seven?"

"I suppose you're right," Ron chuckled. "I can't wait to have one of my own, though I doubt the kid'll be normal. She'll be a right smartarse, just like her mum."

Harry smiled. "She?"

"It's got to be a girl. It'll give me a reason to knock some blokes around."

"If you want a child, Ron, you're going to have to stop drinking this stuff," Harry laughed, dragging Ron's shot of Firewhiskey away from him, across the table.

"If I want a child, Harry, I need a less dangerous job. I don't want my kid to have a father who comes home with his arm blown off or-"

"His ear missing?"

"Mm, yes, then it can float around and keep George's ear company."

"Maybe you should stop drinking this stuff anyway," Harry replied, amused. "I don't want to have to drag you back to Hermione again."

"Ahh, she thinks I'm funny when I'm drunk."

"No, _you_ think she thinks you're funny when you're drunk."

"…What?"

"Nevermind. I'll get the check."

Madame Rosmerta, however, as always, insisted that the drinks were on the house, and Harry slung one of Ron's arms around his shoulder and escorted him to the Floo to take him home.

…

"I shouldn't let him spend time with you anymore, Harry. He seems to always come back like this," Hermione sighed.

Harry gave her a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

She smiled at him nonetheless. "I imagine he'll get rather randy with me later, and I'll have you to blame."

She gestured for Harry to come out of the fireplace, letting Ron fall limply over onto her shoulder with a slobbery kiss to what ended up being her ear rather than her lips, then finally let him fall onto the sofa.

Hermione was already in her night clothes, a soft, but faded, pink robe wrapped around her and her frizzy brown hair pulled up high off of her neck.

"He's going to be your problem at work tomorrow you know. Would you like some tea?"

"No thanks." She always offered it. He always refused – unless they were simply catching up one-on-one, which they tried to do at least twice a month.

"Oh, Harry, Ron's been telling me what's been going on. Have you found out anything else?"

She was making the tea anyway.

Harry shuffled his feet, then looked down to make sure he wasn't leaving soot on the hardwood floor.

"Nothing you can discuss, I suppose?" She frowned a little, looking disappointed.

"Well…" Harry looked over to Ron's lifeless form, draped over the couch like a blanket and snoring away. "I'm not sure, really."

He shuffled into the kitchen where Hermione was setting up for tea.

"How can you be _not sure_?" Hermione questioned, though there was no anger behind her voice.

"I'm pretty unsure on everything in this case," Harry responded.

Hermione placed the teapot in front of him, and when he didn't touch it, she poured him a cup of tea and dropped two sugar cubes in it along with a small spoonful of honey. He stared at it for a moment, then looked up at her, bewildered.

She smiled. "After all these years, of course I know how you like your tea."

Harry returned the smile and decided to drink it, even though he'd already told her he didn't want it. Lo and behold, when he did, it warmed him throughout and he started to feel his stress ease away, when the Firewhiskey had done nothing to do so. Hermione Granger was never wrong, after all.

"Well," he started. "There's a lot of problems with this case. So little evidence, and the death shocked everyone. We've never seen something so brutal."

"Mm," Hermione replied, sipping from her own teacup. "Ron told me that Draco Malfoy was responsible, but I know he tends to jump to conclusions."

"Malfoy's our only suspect right now – well the only one with any evidence that he was even there. But Smith didn't have a lot of friends, and I can't imagine how many enemies he's made over the years. It wouldn't be too hard to hide. And as far as I know, Draco Malfoy hardly knew Smith. To kill him in such a manner just seems so-"

"Personal. Yes, I agree."

"I talked to him today. Confronted him."

"Yes, and?" Hermione was thoroughly intrigued, like she was reading a wonderful book. "He had to be expecting you. Was he an emotional wreck?"

"That's just it. He _wasn't_. He wasn't even nervous from what I could tell. He wasn't frustrated, angry, or anything, even when I started to argue with him."

Hermione pursed her lips, confused. "That—"

"Doesn't sound like him, I know. When he even thought about having to kill Dumbledore, he was beside himself. Then again… Malfoy's lost a lot of weight too. He looks pretty shriveled. He was the same way when he was planning to kill Dumbledore."

"I don't know, Harry. If he was so grief-stricken over the mere thought of killing someone, do you really think he would be completely fine after actually doing such a thing? Especially something so brutal?"

Harry shrugged. "Something was off about him the entire time we spoke. I've never seen him so emotionless."

Hermione folded her hands, looking down into her teacup with a wrinkled brow. "Something doesn't add up."

"You're right. He's never been a very kind individual, but always been fiery to say the least. I mean… if he's so unaffected at mere conversation, it makes me worry what he's capable of."

"People don't change, Harry. Not like that."

"Maybe they do. Maybe he did."

"Well… he has had a rough few years," Hermione frowned, still unhappy with the thought.

Harry finished his tea. "I know. And all his unhappiness has been splayed all over the Prophet. Poor bastard."

"Well, Harry. I'm not really sure what's happening, but don't chasing ghosts if you don't think it's worth it."

"Hm?" Harry eyed her, confused with her statement.

Hermione sighed. "You were right in the fact that Malfoy's reminding you of how he was during our Sixth Year. I'm just hoping you won't follow suit."

"Pardon?"

"Harry, you were obsessed with him. He took over your mind, and you could have gotten very hurt in the process."

Harry balked. "Hermione, surely you don't think I would…. I… how could you even suggest that?"

"Wait-no, Harry," sighed Hermione, closing her eyes and placing a weary hand on her forehead. "I didn't mean it like that-"

"I should probably go," Harry interrupted. "It's getting pretty late, and I think Ron's waking up."

"Harry, just please don't misunderstand me," Hermione begged.

"It's—It's fine, Hermione. Have a good night. Tell Ron I'll see him in the morning. Good night." Harry turned on his heel and stepped into the Floo, his jaw held tightly and painfully.

He wanted to accuse her of jumping to conclusions, much like her husband, but he couldn't bring himself to.

The part that worried him most was that he knew Hermione Granger was never wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Draco did not sleep well. He had dreams of Dumbledore, and the gentle face telling him that he was _better than all this_ as he withered away into nothing. He woke up in a cold sweat, more tired than he had been when he went to sleep. He ran a shaky hand down his face, not wanting to move from his bed in the darkness. The day ahead seemed much too dreadful to face.

He knew that Ministry officials would be all over the Potions shop, and with that many officials poking around, the press was sure to follow. Draco knew if he saw one more Daily Prophet reporter, he'd snap. They'd been less than sympathetic to him over the years, especially in the weeks after his father died, asking him startling personal and offensive questions that seemed to get progressively worse, like "Mr. Malfoy, do you think your father killed himself because of his deeds during the war?" or, "Mr. Malfoy, are you afraid that in the event of your father's death, your assets may be turned over to the Ministry?" "Mr. Malfoy, many witches and wizards agree that Lucius Malfoy deserved what happened to him after his misdeeds. Do you agree?" "Mr. Malfoy, can you confirm the rumors about Narcissa Malfoy going insane?"

_Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Malfoy. Mr. _Fucking_ Malfoy._

All he'd wanted was for it to stop. And now it was starting all over again.

He groaned and rolled over in his bed, his hands still trembling slightly from the awful night, and he was fairly sure if he sat up the vertigo would make him sick. There were too many emotions bubbling under his surface. It seemed to be getting harder and harder to turn them off, and the stress was getting to him. He rubbed absently at his aching neck, thinking very hard about just staying in bed all day or all year or forever and never going back into daylight ever again.

But that would seem awfully suspicious.

He finally forced himself up and on his feet, and the room wavered violently before his eyes. Still, he managed to right himself without doubling over, mainly because he remembered he hadn't had anything to eat the day before. He trudged out of his messy bedroom and into the even messier kitchen, sorted some ingredients, and began to brew his calming draught.

"That should be alright," he said quietly. "It'll only take a few minutes."

He gritted his teeth. His body wanted it right then.

He drummed his fingers on the counter, waiting, watching for the potion to change from the dark sludge to the bright red color it was supposed to be. It felt like hours before he was letting it drip down his throat. He filled eight viles and stored them in a leather case, getting ready for what he was pretty sure was going to be the day from hell.

As he showered, he felt his mind wandering. Without the emotions to cloud his logic, his mind was sharper, though the world felt rather dull and dim. Still, the thought came to him.

The Ministry would undoubtedly be investigating him. After Potter's reaction to him the day before, he was no doubt suspicious, though certainly not guilty. He couldn't dare let his emotions get him – he'd end up blurting something he couldn't take back, or worse – breaking down completely in front of them. Remorse be damned, he didn't have much pride left, and the Ministry officials weren't the type of people that thought a few tears meant anything anyway. They'd probably go to the Daily Prophet with smug grins on their faces and spread the word that Draco Malfoy cried tears of guilt for killing Zacharius Smith.

"But I didn't kill him," Draco said. The words echoed very faintly off the tile walls of the bathroom, then drowned into the sound of water shooting from the wall.

It was such a damn simple statement. It should have been enough. But it wasn't. Not for Potter. Not for the Ministry. Not for the Daily Prophet. Not for the entire fucking Wizarding World. He didn't understand it. His family had not been perfect by any means, but had they really been so bad? And Zacharius wasn't any angel, but his misdeeds were quickly forgotten upon his murder, especially when a Malfoy was involved. And everyone was already completely convinced that he had killed Smith. The truth didn't matter. Zacharius was dead, and Draco was the only lead because he was probably the only lead the Ministry wanted. As soon as he was suspected, no one else cared for who else might have been there, who else might have killed him.

"_I DIDN'T FUCKING KILL HIM!"_ he yelped, his voice bouncing around him and mocking him.

Draco felt his chest burn so violently that he gasped and fell against the side of the shower, the glass pressed against him, cold and slick. His breath fell shallowly from his lips as he waited for the pain to subside. After a minute, he managed to stand under the water again, though his legs still felt a little wobbly from the shock. It had been awhile since the potion had to fight his nerves so aggressively, and the pain had never been that bad. Still, as it bloomed through him, the numbness overtook him completely, and he felt nothing. He hardly felt his toes for a moment.

He finished his shower, dried, dressed, and padded out into his living room to put on his shoes and coat. But his cauldron caught his eye as he made his way past the kitchen. He frowned. In the state he was in, he would be almost as suspicious if he was an emotional wreck – maybe even moreso. He checked his watch, then sighed. He could be a couple of minutes late, he supposed.

He pulled out _Validus Venenum_, and began to flip through the pages.

…

Draco adjusted the bag on his shoulder as he approached the shop, only about fifteen minutes late. He was sure Peter had already gone inside and started setting up, as he did often when Draco was late, however, as the shop came into his vision, he found Peter sitting outside on the ground, in a small patch of dirt where the snow had not piled, looking very pale in the face, as if he knew he would be in trouble.

"Peter, what are you doing out here? Did you forget your key?"

He shook his head, his sapphire eyes laced with worry. "No, sir."

"Then… enjoying the morning sunshine? Quit cocking about. We've got work to do."

"But, sir. The Ministry won't let me."

Draco felt his chest bloom in pain as his emotions were squelched against his will. "What?" he asked, his expression dark as he stared at the door. Anger was slow to come, and when it did, it was a mere echo of what it might have been without the potion.

"They say that the shop is under investigation, and no one but Ministry officials are allowed to go inside."

"Well, that's ridiculous." Draco said simply, and he was fairly sure that without the draught keeping his emotions down, he would have started throwing things in the street or cursing the first person he saw – which would have unfortunately been Peter.

Draco waltzed up to the door and put the key in the lock, ignoring the letter on the door telling non-Ministry officials to keep out. As he turned the knob, the door didn't even move and he blinked slowly, feeling a small bit of anger pulsing in his temples and pulling his wand out of his robes.

"_Alohamora."_

Nothing.

Draco's chest was burning so strongly, he was almost certain it was glowing, and he knew he needed to calm down. But the Ministry was pushing their limits already. He couldn't just close up shop. It was his job. He scowled, digging through his bag and producing a mortar pestle that he usually used for potion ingredients and slammed it through the window glass. It shattered noisily, and many people stopped to watch as Draco strolled casually to the window and stepped through into the shop, the display askew on the floor. He looked over his shoulder at Peter, who was still standing in his place, completely dumbfounded.

"Sir, your window-"

Draco waved his hand. "I'll have it repaired. It's worth the funds to prove my point. The Ministry will not control me."

"Why did they close the shop?"

Draco looked to Peter who was clambering through the window display rather clumsily. "They've convinced themselves that I've done something wrong when I haven't."

"Do you think we'll sell anything with our display destroyed?" Peter looked a little miffed at the devastation of all his hard work.

Draco would have probably laughed if his emotions weren't being dragged down into the pit of his stomach. It was actually quite amusing to see the poor boy so red in the face.

"Probably not."

"Then _why_ did you break the window?"

Draco's head shot in Peter's direction and the boy immediately took a step back, realizing he was out of line, though Draco hadn't even glared at him so much as just stared at him blankly.

"Because I needed to get inside."

"…" Peter hesitated before finally asking. "Why?"

"Because this is my shop, and I should be able to get inside when I need to."

The potion was in full effect after fighting Draco so strongly outside. Draco couldn't feel the tips of his fingers as he drummed them on the desk.

"So much for not being suspicious," Draco muttered to himself as he watched Peter rather dejectedly try to clean up the damage.

Draco's eyes wandered to the outside, and he could see the Ministry officials approaching against the pure white snow. He knew it wouldn't take long before they showed up – he'd probably set of an alarm of sorts. But it was fine with Draco – he had a few things he wanted to say to them anyway.

He dug into his bag and pulled out the leather case, keeping a watchful eye on Peter as he swept up the glass, looking a little chilly with the cold air streaming through the open display.

He had brewed three potions that, from the translation he'd made in _Validus Venenum_, were basically Pepper-Up Potions with a kick. He wasn't sure what the potions would do, but he was pretty sure his impulsive decisions were already being made that morning, so he decided he might as well drink one in hopes of looking a bit more human to them.

He drank it and slipped the case back into his bag.

"The Ministry's coming," Peter said. "…Sir? Are you alright? You're flushed."

Draco gripped the counter, keeping his eyes on his hands as he felt his body heat up dramatically, his heart slamming against his chest, lungs tightening, vision blurring. He squeezed his eyes shut.

And then—nothing. Draco opened his eyes.

"Yes, Peter. I'm fine. You're dismissed for the day."

Peter looked confused. "But I just-"

"Out."

Peter shrugged and clambered out the window, heading up the street before the Ministry got to the shop.

Within a few minutes, in came the Ministry, and leading them was Harry Potter himself.

"Ah, here to give me another chance, Potter?" Draco said snidely, and the words felt heavy and strange in his mouth.

He looked a bit taken aback.

"Oh, erm-" Harry cleared his throat, getting his bearings. "Mr. Malfoy, you have gone against Ministry regulations and entered your shop, clearly disregarding the statement put up to tell you to stay out."

"Oh, is that what that was?" Draco replied with a smirk, feeling a little jittery and on edge.

Harry glared at him, though he seemed more curious than anything. Draco swallowed thickly, already starting to regret taking the potion. He drummed his fingers on the table. His body felt like it would never stop moving, like he'd been zapped with lightning.

"Yes, it was. Did you read it?"

"I'm afraid I don't read notices, Potter. Especially when they are placed on my door by a vile, ignorant government organization that has no idea what it's talking about."

"Mr. Malfoy-"

"Enough!" Draco's voice felt raw and hoarse in his throat. His chest ached with the combination of the drugs in his system.

"Mr. Potter, do you want us to-" one of the Aurors started, but Harry silenced them with a hand.

"Alright, Malfoy. Why don't you go ahead and tell me what you want to tell me."

"I didn't kill Smith. If you're looking for a tearful confession, you're in the wrong place."

"Evidence places you at the scene," said a Ministry official, looking down his nose at Malfoy – just like they always did.

"It doesn't mean I killed him!" Draco seethed. "Though I'm sure you certainly stopped looking when you found out I'd even been there. A good quick way to get the last Malfoy behind bars before he has the chance to revive You-Know-Who? Don't be such idiots. I'm just trying to live my life without your disturbing it."

"And we are trying to do our jobs, Mr. Malfoy," replied another official with a sneer. "And people like you always make it a harder job than it should be."

Draco glowered at the two Ministry men that had spoken against him, standing on either side of Harry. Draco had never seen them before, and it made him all the more enraged. They didn't know him. They probably based their opinions on articles and hearsay and that was not who he was, no matter what anyone believed.

"Consider it earning your living you condescending piss-artist."

Harry held up his hand quietly before the officials even had a chance to lift their wands and hex Draco the next dimension. Draco almost wished they would have. It would have made his life a bit easier, and they would have been kicking themselves for getting rid of the man they wanted to blame.

"That's enough. Let's try not to lose our heads here, gentlemen."

Draco stared at Harry. He was all business in front of the Ministry. It was almost sickening.

"Some hero you turned out to be, Potter. You're just as corrupt and ignorant as they are. You brought them here because you can't get past that bloody feud we had when were schoolboys, is that it?"

Harry's eyes narrowed, and there was something behind them that looked almost like shame, and something else that was reading Draco up and down.

"Get out of my shop," Draco finally finished, his voice dangerously low, and he could feel his sanity teetering on the edge. "…Or I will blast you out myself."

Harry didn't look bothered in the slightest, but he knew Malfoy's tendency to bluff. The other Ministry officials, however, with their long robes and longer faces, looked terrified.

"No need to get violent, Malfoy."

Smug. It was the only word that Draco could think when looking at Harry Potter and the small smirk playing on his lips.

"Fuck you."

Draco felt spent, even though he had only been arguing for a matter of minutes. He figured it probably had something to do with the potion, because he could taste it in the back of his throat. His adrenaline was starting to even out and exhaustion was starting to settle in. He frowned. He used to be better at arguing. He'd just gotten too accustomed to turning the other cheek.

"I didn't kill Smith. I can give you my word on that. You've got the information you needed. Now get out." Draco growled, before turning in a swirl of robes and stalking off to his office, locking himself in.

After a long moment, he heard a knock on the door.

"Sod off. You're not going to believe anything I say anyway, why should I give you a statement?"

"…Give me one reason to believe you didn't kill Smith." Harry was almost daring him to be honest. "What was he to you?"

Draco bowed his head. "Well… it doesn't matter now, does it?"

He disapparated.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"Ron, I'm in a dilemma."

"Right," Ron said, taking a large bite out of his sandwich, his feet kicked up on Harry's desk. "I've noticed. You want to believe Malfoy's a good little bugger, but he's not."

Harry frowned, eying his soup with a scowl – being that it was within centimeters of Ronald Weasley's dirty, boot-clad, feet. "Not exactly."

"Well then, what codswallop's plaguing you today, Harry?"

Harry bristled a little further. "You know, Ron, it's not as charming as you think it is when you throw all my thoughts away as idle rubbish."

Ron gave him a sympathetic smile. "Sorry."

"I'm sure." Harry sipped a spoonful of his soup and placed the spoon back in the bowl with a sigh. "I don't know, Ron. Something about this isn't adding up at all. Draco Malfoy is our only suspect, but I really don't think he did it. I feel like maybe he has something to do with it, but… I don't know."

"So… you think he… hurt Smith? Maybe?"

Harry grimaced, not feeling much like eating – as good as Hermione's homemade tomato soup was. "No, it isn't like that. He… he… knows something. But I don't know what."

"Harry, you've got to get your mind off this," Ron said with a mouthful of food. "You're overthinking so much that you're not thinking clearly. Like… like when I was gonna ask Hermione to marry me, right? I really thought she'd say no. I honestly thought she'd say no. Now why on earth would she have said no?"

"…Because you talk with your mouth full?" Harry deadpanned. Ron threw a piece of lettuce at him.

"Ha ha."

Harry smiled at Ron, watching as he swallowed before he said anything else.

"So you think Malfoy knows something… but didn't kill Smith. So… now what?"

Harry leaned on his hand. "I don't know. I may have lost my mind."

"I think you have. Malfoy's a complete prat."

"But he's never been a killer."

"His father was."

"But that doesn't mean he is. It's… complicated. I mean, I saw him… that day…"

"The day he tried to kill Dumbledore. Yes, I know. But don't let one moment with him change your entire viewpoint. If he's guilty, Harry, then he should be punished. And he's not exactly doing anything to prove his innocence."

"He's irritated, Ron. Wouldn't you be?

"Don't make excuses for him, Harry. You're being a bleeding-heart."

"Here. Eat my soup. I'm not hungry." Harry pushed the bowl across the desk and Ron happily took it, understanding that it was the end of that conversation.

"Harry, whatever you decide to do, use your head."

"Mm." Harry was staring at a few documents, but wasn't actually reading them.

He didn't know how Malfoy was involved, but something about the situation irked him to no end. Something was completely off. But he couldn't really argue his point without any proof. Hermione's voice kept playing over and over in his mind.

"_Harry, you were obsessed with him. He took over your mind, and you could have gotten very hurt in the process."_

Maybe the same thing was happening again. He didn't want to think so. He and Draco Malfoy had always had an odd sort of relationship. It was definitely a lot of push and pull, prattling on, moving from schoolboy arguments to full blown feuds to something a little more distant and confusing. After the war, they had both kind of… gone their own ways. Now they were being thrown back together in a compelling game of fate once again.

"Harry," Ron finally said. "Don't do this again. If he's innocent, the evidence will show it. If he wants to talk to you, he'll come to you."

Harry nodded. "I just don't want my department to be corrupted, Ron. We've dealt with political issues enough. I don't want to be that type of person. I never want to be that type of person. I got this job in hopes to make this department work the way it should."

Ron looked a little uncomfortable with the idea that the Aurors weren't what they had strived for them to be, drinking down the last of the tomato soup in silence.

…

Draco hovered over the commode, his throat still burning and his eyes still watering. He had been sick for three days, and had to keep the shop closed. He worried that the mixture of potions had done it, and though he'd been taken the calming draught he had strayed from the other because, frankly, he'd been vomiting ever sense. He fell back against his bathroom wall, exhausted, his head pounding. He felt like death. His skin was clammy and his eyes were puffy and he hadn't eaten in three days so all he was really coughing up was bile which made his throat raw and painful. He pulled himself up and flushed the toilet, dragging himself back to his bedroom and collapsing into his mattress.

Just as he started to drift off, there was a knock at the door. He groaned. It was probably the press or something.

Then, lo and behold, he heard the lock click and the door open slowly.

"Draco? You in, mate?"

Goyle. Draco smiled half way into his pillow. The boy always seemed to know when he was in a bind. Given, he couldn't really do anything about it, but it would be nice to have a little company. He greeted him with a long, melodramatic moan in his direction.

"My my," he said, appearing in the doorway. "Aren't you looking lovely today."

Goyle had grown into his looks over the years, slicking his hair to the side and leaning his bulky, muscular frame against the doorjamb. He had bits of stubble on his face and a smart suit on. He had fairly successful work at Gringotts, running specific accounts (mainly those of former Death Eaters), and keeping everything safe. He was also shagging Daphne Greengrass, which, Draco figured, would make any man look a little better.

Draco waved a hand at him. "It's been a rough few days."

"Yeah, I got your letter this morning. That damn owl of yours gets distracted too easy."

Draco rolled over on his back, feeling overexerted by the simple motion. "It'll get hit by one of the Muggle planes eventually, I imagine."

"You eaten?"

"No."

"Anything to drink?"

"Not really."

"Merlin, Malfoy. You'll end up offing yourself being like this. _Accio water glass._" A glass of water floated into his hand and he yanked Draco up a bit roughly. "Drink up."

Draco did, though he didn't want to admit that dying would be an improvement at this point. "Thanks."

"Any idea where you caught this bug?"

Draco shook his head. "No." He hated lying to Goyle, but he couldn't get him involved.

"You look like a drowned ferret."

"Still look better than you, chap."

Goyle smirked. "I believe that. You need me to run to the grocer? I can make you something to eat."

Draco ran a hand over his stomach. "Ugh, I don't honestly think I could digest it."

"Well, you need to try. I'll make you a potion to help quell the nausea."

"Absolutely not. I don't trust you with potions. I took the class with you after all. I can make it." Draco kicked his feet off the bed and his head spun.

"Mm, yes, you're clearly capable."

"You don't have to be here, you know."

"Well, whenever I get a begrudging, moaning, letter from you, I always assume you're in need of a little attention, so I come right over. Really, mate, you should get a girl in your life."

"I hate women. Getting in their knickers really isn't worth listening to them talk for more than fifteen minutes."

"You a woofter?"

"Goyle, can we please not talk about my sex life, or lack thereof, right now? I'm much too tired."

"Alright, alright. You need to eat something though, Draco. You're getting awfully thin."

"I'm stressed. I hardly feel like eating most of the time."

"I know things have been hard, but you can't just let yourself be this way. You're killing yourself."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Now who's being overdramatic?"

"I'm not being overdramatic, Draco," Goyle replied in a huff, pulling Draco's arm around his shoulders and walking him out of the room. "I've noticed you changing. I'm not a complete idiot."

"Could've fooled me. I'm not out to off myself, Goyle. Calm down."

Goyle helped Draco to the kitchen table and began to dig through his cabinets. "I have the right to wonder. The press, and the war, and your parents…. And Zacharius. It's a real shame. You two were close friends, weren't you?"

"Don't remind me, alright? It's much easier when I don't have to think about it."

"…What's this?" Goyle asked out of pure curiosity, holding up _Validus Venenum._

Draco swallowed. "Oh… it was… my father's. Just was thumbing through it the other night when I couldn't sleep."

"You and your potions books. This thing is ancient." Goyle dropped the book back on the table and went back to fixing Draco some chicken broth on the stove. Draco ran a finger along the rim of his water glass. "You know, once you're healthy again, you really should get out of the house. It's not good for you to be here alone all the time."

"I get out. I go to work. I go out for drinks occasionally. I visit mom. I'm not here much at all. I just… I have to lay low right now, with all the press hanging around."

"They're saying you killed Smith," Goyle said, his voice dropping in volume. "The Prophet posted about it this morning."

"Yes, I know."

Goyle placed the bowl in front of Draco, and he eyed it worriedly. He really didn't to lose it after eating it.

"So… did you? Did you do it?"

Draco glowered. "No."

"I just thought I'd check. None of us have a particularly good past."

"I didn't kill him. But at this rate, I'll probably be shipped off to Azkaban anyway. Then you won't have to come over here and take care of me or anything like that."

"Don't talk that way. If you didn't do it, you shouldn't be punished for it."

"I think you're forgetting what world we're living in."

…

Goyle left later that evening, leaving Draco to his own devices – which he preferred. Goyle was one of his best friends, and Draco cared for him deeply, but he didn't want Goyle telling him what he already knew. Draco was perfectly aware that his life was going far from swimmingly, but he'd always been a somewhat private individual and really didn't need the constant reminder of it.

At least he was feeling better. He was sluggishly moving about the house, cleaning, because there wasn't really anything else he could do. He had taken a couple more special calming draughts after Goyle had left, and he was feeling a bit more at ease with the world.

Then there was another knock on his door.

"Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Malfoy!" Peter's voice was muffled on the other side, but Draco could hear his panic from across the room. "Please answer! Mr. Malfoy!"

Draco pulled the door open and stared down at the child in confusion.

"Peter, the shop will be open tomorrow, I promise—"

"No, you don't understand. I went to get some schoolwork I left there and—"

"Peter, I'm sure this can wait until tomorrow. I'm really not feeling well-"

"THE SHOP IS ON FIRE!"

Draco felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. "Wh-what?"

Peter was almost hysterical, tears welling in his eyes. "All these people were outside yelling and someone set it on fire."

"Fuck," he repeated over and over as he moved. Draco's chest was burning so hot he was certain the t-shirt he was wearing would burn away. He yanked a trenchcoat on over his pajamas and shoved his feet into a pair of shoes that were sitting by the door, grabbed Peter, and apparated.

When he appeared outside his shop, he appeared to a raging mob, and the shop was lit up like a sun, filling the night with a large red glow. Draco felt his breath slip from his lungs. All his hard work. His shop. His career. One more aspect of his life… up in flames.

He wanted to drop down to the snowy ground and cry. Just cry. But he couldn't. That fucking potion prevented him from doing so. All he could do was stare and watch as the building collapsed into ash, small explosions blasting from the inside, the flammable ingredients being the cause.

"What are you gonna do?" Peter asked finally.

"…I don't know."

…

"How did you let this bloody happen? I go home to get some rest and his shop is burned down?" Harry slammed the newspaper down on the desk, eyes ablaze. "Whether Malfoy did it or not is irrelevant at this point. We just lost any evidence that might have been in the shop! Who let this leak to the press? Answer me!"

The Aurors shuffled a bit uneasily, muttering amongst themselves, but no one came up with a direct answer. Harry gritted his teeth, his jaw hurting.

"If I catch any word that _any_ of you are responsible for this, I'll have you out in the snow in a matter of seconds. Dismissed."

As the room cleared, Harry clenched his fists, sighing in frustration. Ron lagged behind.

"You alright, mate?"

"I just knew something like this would happen. I want you to get me as much information from that shop as we can still gather. Restore what you can. We waited too long. Now, innocent people have gotten hurt. Who the hell sets a potions shop on fire? The explosions alone did major damage. There are still multiple people at St. Mungo's that are toads right now. It could have been a lot worse."

"I'll do what I can, Harry."

"Harry," his office door opened and in came a pale Seamus.

"What now?" Harry groaned, crossing his arms across his chest. His head was starting to hurt.

"Draco Malfoy is here. He wants to talk to you."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Draco swallowed, but his throat seemed infinitely dry. He hadn't taken a potion that morning. After watching his shop burn to the ground, after staring at the ashes, the glowing embers, the remnants of everything he'd built, he had almost given up. He had trudged back to his flat, his chest burning more and more violently with each step. He had gone right into his living room and stood there, staring at a tiny crack in the wall, just staring at it.

He lifted his wand to his head, clenching it tightly in his palm, and for a moment, he really thought he'd do it. He really thought he'd kill himself.

But he didn't.

And when he realized he had chickened out, been a complete coward, he raged, throwing his wand across the room and letting it crack against the wall. Then he started throwing things. Everything. He ripped his flat to pieces, screaming. And when it was all over, he collapsed to the floor, completely numb. For a moment, he stopped breathing. His lungs froze. He'd only lucked out when the potion wore off, but when consciousness hit him, his lips were blue.

It was then he decided that something had to change, and if it wasn't the Wizarding World, well, he apparently had to make the effort.

So he ended up standing outside Harry Potter's office, being really damn conspicuous, as he shuffled his feet in front of the snobby receptionist and the multitude of Aurors that seemed more surprised than enraged that he was even there. And he hadn't had a bit of potion since. He was afraid of what would happen.

But it really didn't help at all, because his nerves were shattered and he was trembling pretty bad just from the lack of the draught. He'd thought briefly of taking the other but quickly decided against it. He still had a vile of the Calming Drought hidden in his robes, and when the door to Potter's office opened and he appeared, Draco wondered if he could just give up and run. But it was really too wait to turn back.

"Hello," Harry said.

Draco nodded, his jaw hurting from how tightly he clenched it.

"Step into my office."

Draco did as he was told, passing Ron Weasley on the way in, who looked more than a little distrustful.

He closed the door behind them, and it was just he and Harry Potter.

"So…" Harry said. "I heard you wanted to talk to me?"

Draco nodded again. "I'm not saying a word until we are in confidence, Potter."

Harry cocked his head to the side for a moment, then seemed to understand, lifting his wand and casting a charm to silence the room to just them. Their own world.

"I can understand something like confidence, Malfoy. I didn't get it much when I was younger."

Draco felt a sneer lift his lip slightly. "Hmm… yes. Clearly I give a damn about your childhood."

Harry gave him a look. "…Yes. Anyway, why don't you sit down? Tea?"

"No thanks. I don't eat or drink in interviews. Much too easy to be drugged."

Draco working for Umbridge had accustomed them both to that fact, but he at least took a seat. He was feeling jittery and on edge. He really needed to calm down.

"I will not record or document anything said in this room, Malfoy. But be aware that anything you say to me is evidence and-"

"Your word is much stronger than mine nowadays. Yes, I know."

"Snippy."

Draco almost wanted to laugh. Harry Potter was looking, dare he say it, pouty. He didn't seem to know what to think of Draco. Given, Draco had to admit it must have been strange, meeting a different Draco Malfoy in every interview so far. He had been a stoic, stony, statue, a overly bitter prat, and now the jittery mess in front of him then.

"Well, Malfoy, why don't you get this all out of the way so both of us can be free of each other's… company?"

Draco sighed. He was acting like an arse. He had been the one to ask for help after all. But, on the other hand, it _was_ Potter.

"Fine. You should know that my shop has been completely destroyed. I hope you know what your little agency has cost me."

"None of my men have spoken about leaking anything to the press."

"It doesn't mean they didn't, Potter. Now my shop is nothing but ashes and I have to start over." He scowled. "Though I'm sure I'll return home and my flat will be destroyed too, because those bastards never get enough."

"That wasn't supposed to happen, Malfoy-"

"Oh, yes. I feel much better, knowing you didn't plan on people despising me. Thank you."

Harry grimaced. "We're doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this."

"Yes, maybe _you_ are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Draco ran his hands through his hair. Now it was getting to the part he was dreading – admitting why he was there.

"…You're the only one in this whole bloody place that even has an inkling that I'm innocent. Everyone else has already written me off…" he paused. "But I expected you to be the first, and you haven't, and I have to say I'm curious to know why."

"If the evidence leads me elsewhere, then you're innocent. I didn't take this job to abuse my power and corrupt the system. I took it because I wanted to help people-"

Draco interrupted Harry by making gagging sounds. "Bollocks, Potter. No one takes a job for intangible things like _justice_. People take jobs for money and perks, and I'm sure you have both."

"Merlin, you're such a child," Harry muttered. "Some people don't always have ulterior motives, Malfoy."

Draco got back on topic. "Where does the evidence lead you? What gives you the idea that I didn't kill Smith?"

"Because…" Harry bowed his head, and Draco eyed him. "Because you didn't… you couldn't… kill Dumbledore."

Draco felt like he had shut down. He was in desperate need of the Calming Drought then, because when Harry mentioned it, in came the flashes of that fateful day: Dumbledore's pale, blue, nearly lifeless eyes, gazing at him, the flames that whipped around the area, and the mere thought – the _thought_ of killing another human being, filling him with dread, and then him not know what to do, not at all. Then the thought struck him, a cold slap to the face.

"…How did you… know about that?" He fought to keep his voice even.

"I was there," Harry said, and it appeared to plague him quite badly too. "Under the Invisibility Cloak."

Draco clenched the armrests of the chair, his heart racing with a newfound rage and humiliation. Harry Potter had been there. His worst moment - and Harry Potter had been there. And for so many more horrible moments after that.

"You…" He couldn't even form coherent words. He dropped his head into his hands and tried to think. "And _that's_ what made you think I didn't kill Smith?"

"You had everything on the line when you had to make the choice to kill Dumbledore, and you still didn't do it-"

"Damn it, Potter, I was a _child!_ I wasn't ready to make that kind of decision!"

Draco didn't know why he was arguing when Harry was trying to prove his innocence, but he figured it had always been the way he handled Potter. Still, as he spoke the words, he felt them hurt, deep in his chest.

He was a child.

He wasn't ready to make that kind of decision.

Merlin, it had been haunting him for years.

When he looked back up, Harry was staring at him, his eyes filled with sympathy. Like Longbottom. Draco swallowed, trying to regain the little shattered pieces of pride he had left.

"Wipe that look off your face, Potter, or I'll hex it off for you." That was a lie. His wand was broken. But Harry didn't know that.

Harry sighed. "It was a hard day for both of us, I think."

"Fuck you. Don't try to relate to me. You're trying to shrink my head."

"Fine, fine."

"So that's your basis on me not killing Smith."

"Yes."

"Well, you wouldn't make much of a lawyer, that's for sure."

And he actually smiled. Draco watched Harry fight it, but damn if he didn't actually smile a little bit. "Yes, it's not much, I know. But I'm attempting to make a case for you, so why don't you trust me so I can do that?"

"I didn't kill Smith."

"Alright. Why don't you tell me what happened that night? Tell me about Smith."

"I really… I don't know much about Smith." Draco felt depression looming over him as he spoke the words. He knew he was going to have to lay it all out on the table, and that meant going places he wanted to keep locked up. "He and I were…" He shook his head. That was necessary. "He came into my shop one day, looking for a potion ingredient, and we struck some good conversation. That night we went out for drinks. It became a weekly thing, then twice a week, then… every day. We spent a lot of time together."

"Did he have any enemies that you know about?"

"Please, Potter. We went to school with him. Everyone hated him. He never _could_ make up his mind." It felt so morbid to be talking about him that way, knowing that he had been gutted. "But never anyone that seemed to despise him to… to that degree." Draco felt sick.

"He never mentioned anything that seemed strange?"

"He was always a quirky little chap. Really all mouth and no trousers. Got him into a bit of trouble when he was just a bit too tipsy, but he never said anything that seemed too odd."

Harry tilted his head to the side, studying Draco. "You seem quite fond of him."

"Doesn't matter now," Draco replied hastily. "I wouldn't say that the man was absolutely beloved by everyone around him but… to go to that degree… just seems cruel."

"I agree. How close were you to Smith?"

"Does that matter?"

"Well, if he didn't have any real enemies, I _know_ you do. And there's a chance they were using him to get to you."

Draco paused, dumbfounded. Potter had a point. He had bloody good point.

"Oh, of course."

"Well?"

"We were close friends for quite some time," Draco said, though his voice had dropped significantly in volume. "We shared a few things in common, went out a lot, stayed in a lot. We were fairly inseparable for awhile, I suppose."

"What changed?" Harry asked, and he appeared to be on the edge of his seat.

Draco squeezed the arms of the chair once more, gathered his nerve, and looked Harry in the eye.

"I fell in love with him."

…

Harry nearly fell out of his chair. Draco Malfoy. Was in love. With Zacharius Smith.

"What?"

"Well, you heard me, Potter, I fell in love with him." He was acting as if Harry was inconveniencing him. Like it wasn't the most shocking thing he'd heard that day.

"Malfoy… you were…"

"Yes. We had a brief fling, to be honest. I wanted to think that he fancied me as much as I did him, but it wasn't the case. He really never could make up his mind."

"What happened?"

"I wanted more; he didn't. So we broke it off. We were getting back to being friends. We were." He sighed. "He'd actually wanted to have me over for drinks the night he was killed. I got this note."

He placed on the desk in front of Harry. _Drinks, my place. Z.S._

It was definitely Smith's handwriting, slanted and a little wobbly. "I… I see…"

"But if someone wanted to come after me, Potter, why would they go after Smith? It isn't like I'm a difficult target. Merlin, the newspapers would probably print joyous messages if I had been killed."

"You're better at magic than Smith is. You could defend yourself better."

"Smith wasn't an easy one to take down. We dueled on occasion and he beat me once or twice."

"You also live in a more public place. Smith lives in the middle of nowhere."

"I suppose that's true, but—"

Harry interrupted, the thought striking him. "Tell me, do you think anyone else might have been at Smith's, expecting you that night?"

Draco blanched at the idea. "I don't know. He didn't mention anyone else."

Harry frowned. He was on to something; he just knew it. It just needed some needling, some working. "Malfoy, may I be honest with you?"

"Yes."

"I think you might have been framed."

…

Draco was dismissed soon after that. Harry Potter had a case to work on, after all, and he stepped out of the room to a crowd of curious faces.

"Sod off," he said simply, making his way out.

He had thought telling Potter everything would alleviate some of the worry he was feeling, but it only exacerbated it. Along with reliving the nightmares of Dumbledore's and Smith's deaths, he was left with a strong, lingering sense of paranoia. Someone was out to get him. Someone wanted him not dead, but suffering. Suffering more than he ever had. And whoever it was had killed Smith.

It was disturbing and terrifying on so many levels.

He walked quickly throughout Diagon Alley, keeping his head down, avoiding the many accusing glares in his direction. Harry Potter was trying to help, but that didn't mean he was a little too late to stop bad things from happening. And the longer he walked, the more he felt the eyes on him, burning into him, setting him ablaze, just glaring, glaring, glaring, glaring!

His pace quickened with the beating of his heart, and he just kept moving, growing more and more terrified of the people around him. It could have been any one of them that killed Smith. They all hated him, and they all took some sort of masochistic thrill out of watching him suffer. When he made it to his flat, he all but ran up the stairs and slammed the door behind him.

He took five vials of the Calming Draught, one right after the other.

He felt like he was on fire for a brief moment, the overwhelming emotions boiling over and numbing away.

Then he collapsed.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

At some point, the feeling began to return to Draco's body, and at that point he dreamed. He dreamed of his past, leering over the swollen ugly face of Harry Potter. He was told to identify him.

"I… I can't be sure…"

And yet it was so clear that it was Harry Potter in front of him. The boy had plagued him for years – he knew he'd recognize that face no matter what happened to it. But there was something in him that just wanted to scream that it wasn't him and they should let him go. One, because that would mean the Dark Lord himself would be returning to his home and almost infecting it with that chill of fear, and two, they would kill him. And he didn't want Harry Potter to die, because if he died, the Dark Lord would rise, and he was afraid of him.

But it was even more complicated than that, he was sure. It was just the only thoughts in his head at the time. When it was all over, and Harry Potter had escaped, he remembered hating himself. Wanting so much to just bash his head into the wall. It really didn't take much of a fight to let Harry take his wand. He all but let him have it, because he just didn't want the responsibility.

That was his main issue. He had so many choices and responsibility dumped on him and he was just perfectly willing to give it up, even if the results were life and death.

It left him wondering if he was ever truly capable of anything.

Then he dreamed of the massive Fiendfyre, the glow of it sweltering on his face, and Harry, pulling him onto his broom and flying him away from the overwhelming flame, threatening to consume him.

Kind of like he was trying to do with the press.

Then he dreamed of Zacharius, leaning on his hand, over a tumbler of alcohol, looking amused. "Don't be daft, Draco. You're not in love with me. You're in love with the fact that someone, after all your misdeeds, took an interest in you at all."

And he had been so infatuated that he had believed him. He still did believe him. After all, it made perfect sense didn't it?

It hurt to think about, how no one would be interested in him at all, now that Zacharius was gone. And it was his fault Zacharius was gone. The potion in his system burned again and he drifted off into blackness completely, away from dreams, away from everything.

"_REVOCO!_"

Draco jolted so suddenly that he felt himself lift off the floor with a gasp and a wail of pain. His eyes shot open and he was gasping, clutching to the offensive spot on his chest, leaning into himself, suddenly very very awake.

"Merlin! What on earth-" Draco breathed heavily looking to Goyle, who looked about as breathless as he was.

"I—I'm sorry! Your heart wasn't beating! I panicked! Oh… oh your chest is burned…"

Draco looked down where his shirt had been ripped open, the scalded mark dark against his skin and still smoking just a little bit.

"You… you bastard, you could've killed me! That's not a spell you do unless you went to a damn university!"

"You were already dead! What the hell did you expect me to do?" Goyle argued back, his adrenaline causing his voice to be just below a yell. "What happened to you?"

Draco curled into himself, starting to calm down. "Nothing…. Nothing."

"Something did! You don't just die on your living room floor! And this place is a mess! Were you robbed? What happened?"

Draco shook his head. "I… I guess I just… overexerted myself… after being sick… is all."

"Are you out of your mind? Things like that don't just happen! What did you do?"

"Oh, I don't know Goyle. There's someone out there trying to kill me! Naturally I'm a bit stressed!"

"Your lips are blue! You could be dead already if it wasn't for me? Were you attacked?"

Draco shook his head. "No… no." A pause. "What time is it?"

Goyle glared, but he checked his watch anyway. "Five-thirty."

"In the _evening_?" He'd been out longer than he thought. "Shit! I was supposed to meet my mum a half hour ago. You know I visit her every week."

"Draco, perhaps you should skip? You're not well."

Draco rolled his eyes, pulling himself up, adjusting his shirt, and pulling on his coat. "Don't be ridiculous. She's at a hospital. What safer place could I be?"

"At least let me go with you—"

"No! You'll insist I get checked out by a doctor, and I just want to go see my mum, okay?"

"Draco—"

"I'm fine, Goyle. Go home. Be with your girl. Enjoy her, alright?"

He slammed the door behind him before Goyle could protest more. His legs were still quite wobbly, but he forced himself to remain upright, making his way down the stairs. He didn't know why it was so important to Goyle that he survive anyway. It wasn't like Draco was a major part of his life or anything – at least, that was the conclusion he'd come to. He apparated the rest of the way to St. Mungo's.

…

Draco Malfoy. In love. With Zacharius Smith.

Harry didn't understand it at all. He supposed it wasn't all that shocking that Draco Malfoy was gay – but Smith had been a member (albeit reluctantly) of Dumbledore's Army. Which meant he at least supported Muggles, didn't it? Which wasn't something the Malfoy family really was known to care for. So there was more to it than that. They'd broken up. That was a small motive perhaps, but a motive nonetheless. If that leaked to the press… they'd have a field day. Harry rubbed his temples. He'd been scouring over case reports for what felt like ages.

"Quitting time, Harry."

He looked up to the doorway. Ginny leaned against the frame, still in all her winter gear, her fiery hair framing her face.

"I think you know first hand how I am about my work."

There was a sadness in her eyes that filled Harry with guilt. "Yeah, it's kind of a shame, Harry. It kind of really is."

There was a long silence in which Harry tried to figure out what to say but kept coming up blank.

"I brought you some dinner. Ron mentioned that you didn't eat lunch today, so I figured you'd be hungry. It's from that charming little café we used to eat at all the time." She placed the to-go bag on his desk and tucked her hair behind her ears.

"Oh… thank you."

"You're welcome."

"So… how's Dean?" Dean Thomas was Ginny's boyfriend. Again.

"Oh… fine. He's great. Sold a lot of paintings this month."

"Oh, that's good. That's good."

"Yes… so… what are you working on?"

"The Malfoy case."

"Yes, I heard about it in the papers. Did he really kill Zacharius Smith?"

"Too soon to tell, but I don't think so."

"No, I understand that. Not really his type of thing, I imagine. The boy was always so clean cut. If he was going to kill someone, I'd imagine it'd be a bit more cunning."

Well, at least someone believed him. Given she still had a touch to her voice that reminded Harry that she was still very much Ron's sister, and probably wasn't entirely convinced.

"Yes, I suppose…"

"What are you gonna do?"

"I don't know, Ginny. I'm trying, but I don't have much here. I think I'll go back to the Smith home. See what I can find."

"Well… don't overdo it too much, okay?" She kind of ruffled his hair with a sad smile. "Everything will work out in the end."

"Thanks. I'll try."

She looked back at him on her way out. Harry turned back to his paperwork.

He wished she hadn't come. Seeing her had him losing his appetite, so he couldn't eat the food she'd brought anyway. There were too many bad memories. Too much guilt.

He sighed. He wasn't going to get any more work done though. He'd looked at the paperwork so much his eyes were crossing. Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe he needed a break. Maybe he should have realized that a long time before.

"Oh, well."

He grabbed his coat and left his office, the food still sitting on the desk.

…

"Narcissa Malfoy, please. I'm a little late," Draco said softly.

The nurse, who seemed to recognize him sneered a bit and nodded. "Yes, I'm sure you know where she is located now, Mr. Malfoy."

"Oh… um…" Draco was a bit surprised at her snarky tone. "Yes. Thank you."

He supposed that the world would naturally treat him a bit different when he was accused of murdering someone.

The psychiatric ward of St. Mungo's never seemed to change. There were so many people there who seemed to just roam around in a never ending line of confusion, and some that would cackle for no reason, and then those that would stare out of their rooms and scream names or other words at him as he walked by. It kind of felt like the world outside, sometimes, and he wondered if perhaps the whole world had gone mad.

His mother's room was the best one he could pay for, because he knew that deep down, she was still a Malfoy behind that porcelain mask, and Malfoys loved luxury. She was sitting at a small table in her room, in a plush robe, her eyes on her wedding ring, which she was fiddling with.

"Hello, Mum," he greeted. She didn't look up. "How are you?"

She didn't respond. She never responded.

"You look healthy. You've been eating?"

He sighed, sitting across from her in silence. She never spoke back, but he always came. Sometimes he wondered why – he never felt better when he left. To think his own mother didn't even recognize him wasn't really a comforting thought.

"Well, you're beautiful."

She looked across the table to him, her blue eyes dark and lifeless. Then they were cast upon her wedding ring again.

"Mum, I wish you'd come back. I… I miss you. I need you right now." He felt the potion bubble in his chest. "I… I've gotten into some real trouble. I really wish I could talk to you. I need your advice. I need someone right now."

She continued to stare at the diamond with little interest.

"Please, Mother," he begged. "Please…"

"My husband gave me this," she said distantly.

"Yes… yes, I know," Draco said finally. "I love you, Mum. I'll be back soon, okay?"

He touched her hand and she shied away, fumbling with the ring. It didn't matter to her if he showed up or not.

"_Don't be daft, Draco. You're not in love with me. You're in love with the fact that someone, after all your misdeeds, took an interest in you at all."_

He didn't want to go home, but he didn't want to stay with her. It was just too painful. And he needed to keep calm after what the potion had done to him. His heart still felt a little imperfect.

The snow outside St. Mungo's was beginning to pile in heaps and mask the pathways, and the world fell a bit more silent, sounds dying against the powder. Draco decided against apparating. It was getting late, and with less people out and about, he figured he'd find a little peace in walking. He wanted a drink. The Leaky Cauldron was quite a ways away, but he figured if he caught the Knight Bus, he'd be there pretty quickly without having to just pop in.

Really he just wanted to get away from everything for a few minutes. Yet it still weighed heavy on him, making his steps slower and exhausting.

…

It felt like ages since Harry had been to the Leaky Cauldron. He always went with Ron to the Three Broomsticks, but he thought it would be nice to have a change of scenery to help him work out his thoughts. That, and he didn't really get as much hero-worship there because, well, the Leaky Cauldron was busier, and people had things to do. Of course, the outpouring and overabundance of obsession had severely dwindled after the war, but he always felt awkward being thanked for something he was prophesized to do.

He downed his third shot of Firewhiskey and sighed. The papers weren't going to let up on Malfoy, and he'd been hearing snide remarks about him all day, even from his own co-workers. It was getting hard not to believe that he'd killed Smith, but Harry knew to go with his instinct after so many years of having to depend on it. He leaned on his hand. Seeing Ginny hadn't helped at all. Just stirred up awful memories. And Dean. Bloody Dean Thomas and his bloody amazing drawings. He couldn't help but be a little jealous. Even though he and Ginny had failed miserably as a couple, he still found himself getting rather lonely. Didn't the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, deserve _someone_? Maybe it was too much of a burden for anyone to bear.

The bar grew deathly silent as the door clanged open. In walked Draco Malfoy, his hair hanging in his eyes, damp and sticking to his forehead. His jaw was set, like he was expecting the reaction. It made Harry's heart sick. He couldn't help it. He was just that empathetic type. Ron always tried to remind him that you couldn't spell empathetic without pathetic. Then Hermione would remind Ron that he couldn't spell pathetic.

He expected Draco to say something, to make some hard remark about people staring, but he didn't. He bowed his head and crept over to a corner and sat in a dusty corner booth, lit by a single orange light that casted dark shadows on his face and truly showed how tired he was. But at least everyone went back to their business. Harry downed another shot of Firewhiskey, frowning.

He figured he should at least go say hello.

"Hello, Malfoy. Can I buy you a drink?"

Draco looked up, his eyes a bit glazed, like he didn't realize where he was right away. Then, a smirk snaked across his lips and he reminded Harry of how he used to be.

"Buy me a drink? Are you trying to shark me, Potter? I'm flattered."

Harry flushed. "That's not what I meant at all," he said in a huff.

Draco chuckled, shaking his head. "Sit. I will happily use up your bar tab."

Harry felt a slight relief on his shoulders. Draco Malfoy being friendly was foreign but welcome. Then again, judging by the reaction he'd gotten when he walked in, he probably was a bit short on friends as of late. And Harry knew how the Malfoy family worked. If there was a way out, he'd take it. The Chosen One sitting at his table may have gained a few more stares, but it was far less likely anyone would retaliate.

"What's your poison?"

Draco shrugged. "If it gets me pissed, I'll drink it."

"I see we agree on some things once in awhile." Harry ordered a bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses. "Where have you been? You're sopping."

"Oh," Draco sighed heavily. "Went for a walk in the snow to clear my head."

"Oh?"

"Yes, didn't do much good, however." He stared down into his drink.

"I'm still working on the case, Malfoy. I've got to dig a bit, though. There's not much to work on at the moment."

Draco nodded. "I'm sure. You really think I'm innocent?"

"Do you want to give me a reason to think otherwise?"

"No, of course not." Draco downed his drink and cringed at the burn of it. "If I get shipped off to Azkaban, I'll know you at least tried." He sounded bitterer than the drink.

"So positive," Harry mused, knitting his brows.

"Mm, I have so many reasons to be, Potter," Draco argued. "Dead father, mad mother, dead lover, murder charge. Yes, my life is going swimmingly."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault. Believe me, if I could find any way to blame this on you, I would have in a second."

"I know."

"Good, at least we understand each other." He poured himself another glass and swallowed it down. He coughed heavily into his hand and Harry thought he saw a few flecks of blood before Draco buried it beneath the table and wiped it on his trousers.

"This place isn't as welcoming as usual," Harry said.

"The entire Wizarding world is unwelcoming when you sit at a table with a Malfoy. At least they serve you here." Then, as a shadow was cast over the table, and a young man leered over the two of them, Draco added: "See? Here's an example of that unwelcoming sort. I'm guessing you read the papers?"

"Bastard," the man seethed. Harry didn't recognize him. "Ministry should've killed all of you off when they had the chance. And here you are trying to brainwash Potter."

Draco glared. "I'm not trying to brainwash anyone. We were just having a drink."

"Probably poisoning him. Bloody Death Eater."

Draco clenched his jaw, folded his hands and turned back to his drink. "I'm not wasting my time."

"You gon' to let him get away with this, Potter? His type brought back You-Know-Who!"

"Sir, with all due respect," Harry said softly. "You've had a bit too much to drink. I think it would be best if you sat down."

"I've been working on a spell," he slurred, grabbing Draco by the cloak and yanking him out of the booth by his cloak. "Saving it for you."

"Oh?" Draco growled, though his voice was a little shaky.

He pointed his wand to Draco's neck.

Why wasn't Draco drawing his wand? Why was he just standing there? Harry began to dig into his robes for his own.

"_Incide Faucibus!_"

Draco yelped, pulling himself out of his cloak and running for the door.

They cheered. The bar bloody cheered. Harry clenched his hand around his wand and ran out after Draco.

He'd fallen to his knees in the snow outside, holding his throat and whimpering. A flash of memories washed over Harry. Memories of him bleeding and whimpering on the bathroom floor after he had used _Sectumsempra._

"Are you alright?" He gasped, rushing over to him and dropping down next to him.

"No," Draco groaned. "Bastard… cut my… neck."

Harry saw the crimson drops spilling into the snow and swallowed. "Merlin… we best get you to St. Mungo's."

"Nonsense. They hate me there too. Just… ah… help me get home. I can… I can brew a healing potion…"

"You'll bleed to death if you're not careful," Harry retorted, pulling off his scarf and wrapping it around Draco's neck tightly. "Come on, come on. Can you apparate?"

Draco shook his head with a withering breath. "I have no wand."

"What?"

"I broke it. Or I would have blasted that drunkard across the bar. Or… really, I probably wouldn't. Because the whole bloody place would have attacked me."

"I'll apparate. Come on, get up." Harry pulled Draco up and he wavered into his chest with a muttered apology.

Harry apparated.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Thank you," Draco said quietly.

Harry was winding a bandage around his neck as Draco stirred the contents of his cauldron, brewing, for the first time in a while, a healing drought instead of a calming drought.

"It's not a problem," Harry replied.

"Well," Draco drew away, letting the cauldron bubble for a moment. "It _is_ really. Perhaps not for you, but for me."

"You have a point there, I suppose," Harry said. "How long will it take for that potion to brew."

"Not long. You've doctored me up pretty nicely. I'll be fine." He absently touched the bandage. "I suppose it was fairly stupid of me to confront that man without a wand."

Harry flopped into a seat at Draco's kitchen table. "It wasn't your brightest moment."

Draco felt a smile creep across his lips. At least he was honest.

"What happened to your flat, anyway?"

Draco looked around at the destruction, a little sheepish. "Oh… that was me. I may have… gone a little mad after I talked to you."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Clearly."

Draco began to clean up, embarrassed at the sorry state of his flat. "Sometimes things overload."

Harry flicked his wand and everything began to make its way back to where it belonged.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. You need to get another wand, Malfoy. Going around without one right now is dangerous."

"I've learned that, thanks," Draco said dryly, glaring over a pile of clothes he'd gathered in his arms.

Harry snorted, his eyes twinkling with amusement, then cutting to the cauldron. "Your potion's ready."

Draco eyed him. "Better at potions than I thought you were." He piled the clothes on his couch and made his way over to the cauldron, scooping some into a glass and guzzling it down. He cringed. "I don't understand how a healing potion has to taste bad. Insult to injury is what it is."

"Mmhmm."

Draco rubbed the spot on his neck. "It'll heal up nicely though."

"Are you going to be alright?"

Draco sighed. "Now, Potter, I'm not looking for pity here."

"I know, but you've got blood all down your shirt. I shouldn't have let that happen."

Draco slipped off his coat and began unbuttoning his shirt, knowing quite honestly that it was ruined. But really, not pitiful. "It's that hero thing, I suppose. Gryffindors are known to be insufferable worriers. But you never had a problem with my being hated before. Why care now?"

"Well, considering my reputation is about to be completely roped in with yours, I think it'd be nice if it wasn't absolutely atrocious."

"Ah, so this is about reputations alone, is it?" Draco slipped the shirt off his shoulders and looked it up and down.

"Well, no, not…" Harry trailed off, staring at him. Draco shrunk back a bit.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

Draco looked to his left forearm, where the black scar of the Dark Mark still remained, faded, but always remaining, a constant reminder of the war that had turned his world upside down. His scar was a lot like Harry's, really – what Voldemort left behind.

"I apologize. It's just… you're very thin."

Draco frowned, feeling self-conscious under Potter's worried eyes. "I eat. I've always been slender. Not really playing Quidditch anymore, so I don't have much muscle tone is all."

He dragged himself over to the couch, pulling up one of the wrinkled shirts he'd dropped there and pulling it over his head, trying to busy himself away from the topic.

"I have a question for you, Potter," he said finally, turning to him and closing the distance between them.

His fingers grazed Harry's forehead, softly tracing the lightning-bolt scar that lay there. "Does it ever hurt? Now that he's gone?"

"No, not really," Harry said. "Sometimes I get phantom pains, but nothing real. Does yours?"

Draco looked down at his arm. "All the time. It's my burden to bear for my choices."

"I'm sorry for that."

"Why?"

"Because it wasn't your choice to make."

"Yes it was."

"You were sixteen. You couldn't make a choice like that," he said softly, taking Draco's arm in his hand and analyzing the Dark Mark. "Strange. I think this is actually the closest I've been to the Dark Mark. Every time I was near a Death Eater, they were trying to kill me after all. Never really got to see it."

"Well, it's faded quite a bit now. I'm not really sure why it would interest you."

"Regardless of all the bad things that happened, it was still a part of my life. This mark made me who I am just as much as my scar did."

Draco wilted a bit, his head still a little dizzy from the day's events, and a bit surprised that Harry's hand upon the Dark Mark wasn't making it sting. No one had ever said it would. He had just assumed.

"I suppose I can understand that. It certainly has played a role in mine."

"Well," Harry sighed. "I became an Auror to make up for what happened in the war, to make a difference. I watched so many people die because of me, for me, in my name… how could I not try to fix what was left behind?" He looked up at Draco. "You are part of that. You were left behind. You don't deserve to be treated the way you've been treated, and I will do anything in my power to make sure that this is not tolerated. You've done nothing wrong."

Draco felt tears trying to well in his eyes but he blinked them away. "And if I have? What if I've been lying to you?"

"If you have been lying to me, and I don't think you have been, that's _my_ burden to bear."

"Seems a bit foolish," Draco mused, his eyes trailing on the dark tendrils of Harry's hair, the long fan of eyelashes hidden beneath the rims of his glasses. "Don't you think?"

"I've made a lot of foolish mistakes."

"So have I."

"Maybe that's why I'm so apt to trust you. Tell me, did Smith have a Dark Mark?"

"No. He wasn't a Death Eater. He wasn't really sure what he was, I don't think. He seemed to be so sure sometimes though. I don't think I ever really understood him."

"Then why did you love him?"

Draco leaned his hip against the table, his fingers still lingering mere centimeters from Harry's hand. "I don't know. He gave me the time of day. Rare for a Malfoy."

"That's not a nice way to think…"

"Didn't say it was, Potter. Life isn't particularly kind to any of us, I don't think."

"Yes, but you were saying it like no one would ever care for you at all."

Draco gazed at Harry with wide, silver eyes. He hadn't really thought about his response at all. "Oh… I don't know…. Shouldn't you be getting home? You've probably got some work to do, right?"

"Well, you're my case, Malfoy—" Harry's stomach growled. He paused, flushed, and bowed his head to look at his feet. "Excuse me."

Draco smiled in spite of himself. "Are you hungry?"

"Afraid so. I completely forgot about the food Ginny brought me."

Draco rolled his eyes. "And you're calling me thin."

"Yes, well, I suppose I better hit a café on the way home. I'm not much of a cook."

Draco nodded. "Somehow I'm not surprised you can't cook."

Harry gave him a look. "Be nice."

"Fair enough, Potter." Draco escorted him to the door and held out his hand. "Take care."

"You too. I'd still like to talk to you more in depth. Perhaps when I'm finished with work tomorrow?"

Draco gripped Harry's hand firmly. "Dinner. You pick the place. Might as well enjoy the atmosphere if the topic's going to be so dreadful."

Harry looked a little nervous, jittery. "Right. Dinner then. I'll owl you."

"Do that."

"Well… rest well."

Draco nodded. It was almost like neither of them wanted to leave, but it was natural for him to do so. Frankly, Harry Potter was the only one that believed Draco was innocent. Even Goyle had his doubts. It was nice to have someone who cared enough to question. And after the atrocious day he had, the company was actually rather inviting. When he disapparated, Draco could smell the lingering scent of his cologne throughout the flat, somewhat spicy, almost like cinnamon. He folded his arms over himself with a long sigh. His arm still tingled where Harry had touched, but never burned. He chalked it up to a phantom pain that never came.

He dragged himself to bed.

That night, he dreamt of Harry. Nothing specific. Just those familiar, emerald eyes in the glow of the Fiendfyre or in the cold light of the bathroom, terrified. He dreamed of the dark tendrils of hair that had so easily distracted him earlier that day, falling gently over his forehead and appearing so soft to touch and so tempting to touch. He dreamt of the scar. Harry's scar that connected them both to the war. The prickling feel of his rough, calloused fingertips on his forearm as he analyzed Draco's Dark Mark with no judgment in his features. The strong grip of his hand. And he tossed and turned as his vision filled his mind, all the while, Zacharius words taunting him: _"Don't be daft, Draco. You're not in love with me. You're in love with the fact that someone, after all your misdeeds, took an interest in you at all."_

He awoke short of breath and drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. He was beginning to think it wouldn't hurt for him to bed a random stranger, because clearly his thoughts were growing more and more corrupted. Then again, he supposed it wasn't completely unnatural to be attracted to Potter. Their relationship had always been strange, but fiery nonetheless, and Potter had grown into a fairly attractive male specimen. Not typically one that would gather Draco's interest, but, again, he was lonely.

He buried his face in his pillow. "I don't need this right now." He was pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. As soon as anyone showed any interest in him at all, he was dreaming about them and wishing to smell their cologne and touch their soft hair, and it was just completely depressing.

And he had a dinner date with Harry Potter. Not that Potter considered it a date, but it was dinner just between the two of them and that was a lot like a date.

Perhaps he had made a mistake, a huge mistake.

But, hell, it hadn't been the first time, so why did it matter anyway? His relationship with Potter wasn't good enough for him to completely ruin by being attracted to him, and though legally he was assisting Draco, Draco honestly didn't believe he would help much. He figured he'd end up in Azkaban before it was all over said and done with. Harry Potter could probably prove his innocence, but that didn't mean he could change the stubborn minds of the Wizarding World and the authorities that came with it, no matter who he was. They would always think Draco manipulated him in some form or fashion. Threatened to kill him, or something worse.

He took a long, cold shower that morning.

…

"Dinner? You're going to dinner?"

"What's wrong with dinner, Hermione?"

Hermione pursed her lips, tearing absently at her scone, leaving crumbs on the plate.

"It's just… well, Harry, you don't think this is playing into what I told you about Draco Malfoy-"

"Yes, Hermione, I imagine, in a way, that it does. But he suggested it, and if he's comfortable, he may speak more openly with me." Then, a pause, and Harry clarified with a dark look. "I'm _not_ obsessed with Draco Malfoy. I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this case."

Hermione's forehead wrinkled as her eyebrows arched up, and Harry found himself wondering if those lines had always been there and he'd never noticed.

"You're sure he's not… trying to manipulate you?"

"I don't know. But I have to show that I trust him in order for him to trust me. I think I can handle myself. I'm not going to allow myself to be a puppet. You know me better than that." Harry couldn't help but be a little offended. Hermione was almost completely positive he was making a mistake, and he wanted some support.

"I'll support whatever you decide to do, Harry," Hermione elucidated, as if she was reading his mind. "Believe me, I will. I'm just concerned that you jumped to conclusions that he was innocent."

"So you'd rather I jump to conclusions that he's guilty?"

"No! No, absolutely not. I understand that it seems fishy, but that doesn't mean he's off the hook completely, Harry. Be completely certain he is being truthful with you before you believe him."

"Hermione, he's not well. I can tell. I don't think he even has the strength to attack someone with the ferocity that whoever it was attacked Smith. He's skin and bones, and he's pale, and he thinks everyone in the world hates him. He seemed to be in lo-" Harry remembered that it had been a private conversation in which Draco had revealed that truth. "He seems to cling to anyone who will give him the time of day. It's horrible."

Pity washed over Hermione's features, as was her nature. "Oh, poor thing," she said softly, trailing off, looking into her tea. "Is he really that bad?"

Harry nodded. "Worse. I know he doesn't want my sympathy, but I can't help it. He's had such an awful few years. The war pretty much blew the entire Malfoy family apart. He's alone."

Ron came bustling in then with two armloads of groceries. "Hermione, I got those—Oh, hello, Harry. When did you get here?"

"About a half hour ago," he replied, taking one of the bags from Ron and helping him put groceries away. "Just dropped in to have a chat during lunch. I've got to be heading back to work, though."

"You should learn to take days off, mate, like me."

"This is a big case, Ron. Must admit the Auror department needs me right now."

"Yes, but they don't always need you. Take some time off after this, alright? We'll go to a Quidditch game."

Harry grinned. "That sounds grand. We'll definitely make plans to do so." He turned to Hermione. "Thanks for the tea and scones, Hermione."

"Any time, Harry," she said, getting up from the table and kissing him on the cheek. "Take care. Don't be a stranger."

"Of course. And…" he leaned into her ear and murmured. "Keep our chat between us for now. Ron's still a little bristly on the whole subject."

"Right. So long!"

"Bye," Harry said, departing into the fireplace. He felt a little more at ease after talking to Hermione. He had a feeling that she was starting to see his view. And if he could convince her, one of the smartest witches in the Wizarding World, who was to say he couldn't convince everyone?

And he had much to do before he spoke to Draco later that evening. He didn't stay at the Ministry long before he apparated to the abandoned Smith household, and began to look around.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Zacharius Smith's home was silent, the snow muffling Harry's footsteps as he approached the door. It sent chills down Harry's spine, to know what had happened there.

"_Alohamora_." The door swung open and he stepped inside.

It was just as dark and foreboding as it had the first time he'd walked in, and there was something nagging at him that he shouldn't be there – that private things had taken place there and he was intruding. He'd never really cared for Smith, and judging my Draco's simple words and gestures, he had a feeling the boy hadn't made much of a change since his school days. There was something very off about his and Draco's relationship, like Draco was in for the long haul and Smith was in for maybe a few minutes.

Harry didn't know for certain. He figured he'd ask later that evening.

"_Lumos._"

His wand lit up and shot a beam of light across the room. Harry held it ahead of him and gingerly took a step forward, scanning the walls and the tables with worried eyes. As before, nothing was out of place, really, though Smith's blood stained the floor. Harry cringed at the sight of it.

He padded into the kitchen, wand ready, nervous. The kitchen was spotless, meticulous. There were three tumblers sitting on the counter that fell easily in place with the rest of it, and yet stood out at the same time.

"Three?" Harry pulled out a quill and a piece of parchment and enchanted it to follow him around and write his notes. "Zacharius Smith may have been expecting someone else."

It scribbled furiously, the scratch of the quill against parchment filling the silence like a roar in his ears.

"Who could he have been expecting?"

Harry picked up the stack of his mail, flipping through the envelopes, not finding anything particularly worth his interest. Even after all his years of investigation, he still felt wrong, prying into the lives of the deceased. To see the letters he'd been sent, the glasses on the table, everything as Smith had left it, was so deeply personal that it filled Harry with dread just to see it. Because Smith's hands would never again touch those envelopes, those glasses. And he had left Draco Malfoy behind to wither in his absence, but Harry couldn't help but wonder if he was already withering before Smith was dispelled from the world.

Harry then made his way into the bedroom, casting the light of his wand upon the well-made bed, the mahogany dresser, the matching armoire. On the dresser were filled frames – Zacharius grinning at Hogsmeade, a young boy, still attending Hogwarts; a diploma from a Wizarding University, specialty in Charms; and a picture of the deceased and Draco, clinking glasses. Zacharius was smiling at the camera, his eyes aglow with mischievous thoughts, and Draco… Draco was looking at him, with all the adoration in the world. Harry drew his finger across the edge of the frame, gingerly, as if it would shatter at his very touch, like the memories placed within it. He turned to the bed, knowing what kind of things must have taken place there, to the mirror, which must have held Draco's image at one time, a happier image than what Harry had known. Or perhaps not.

Something was still bothering him about Zacharius. Smith looked more pleased with himself than he was with Draco. It was almost as if Draco was the only one aware they were in a relationship at all. "Nothing to speak of in the bedroom."

He spent hours scouring the Smith household for clues. He didn't find much, but there was a name that kept popping up in his mail. Nothing dramatic. His letters seemed conversational, simple. Ashby Parker. Harry had never heard of him. Something was off about the tone. He didn't know, but something.

"Who is Ashby Parker? Who is he to Smith? Was he the other person he was expecting? A suspect, maybe?"

When he checked his watch, he cursed. He hadn't even owl'd Draco where they were to meet, and dinner was fast approaching. He could tell by the deep grumble in his stomach. He left the Smith house much as he left it, but the name Ashby Parker was still looping in his mind.

…

Draco adjusted his blazer and frowned. He was being an idiot. Harry was probably coming straight from work. It wasn't like Draco was required to dress nice. Of course, he'd look fairly dead the past times Harry had seen him – perhaps he wanted to let the boy know that he wasn't completely a lost cause. At least that was what he tried to convince himself.

He'd had a few drinks of course, the night before, and he had been injured. Maybe his mind was just in the wrong place. But Harry's hand had been so warm against his skin, so gentle, so… human. Yes, that was what it was. Harry was treating him like a human being.

Draco was starting to regret his treatment of classmates in his past. To be treated as a second-class citizen wasn't quite what he expected. But didn't an eye for an eye leave everyone blind? In the end, he supposed it wasn't right, but maybe, somewhere along the line, he deserved it. At least he'd gone and bought a new wand. No attacks would be made on him that wouldn't be defended.

He slicked back his hair and eyed the letter on his dresser – sent from Harry earlier.

_I know a good place we can meet. Godric's Hollow will be more private .There is a little café there we can dine at. I have some things I discovered today to discuss with you._

It went on to tell Draco where to meet him and even a mention that he should dress warmly since it was fairly chilly still, even though the sky would be clear for the night. He found a small smile playing on his lips. He was ridiculously considerate, it was almost cute.

"Cute?"

Draco wanted to slam his head into the mirror at that very thought. He knew it was the loneliness creeping at the edges of his heart that was causing him to think those things, but without Zacharius, he felt horribly alone. And with danger looming around every corner, he wanted someone in his life to protect him. He'd never done a very good job of doing so himself. He slid a white tie up around his neck, it clashing rather perfectly with the black button down, and buttoned his blazer. He looked old. The bags under his eyes were growing more and more obvious, and the lines in his forehead were starting to deepen with worry. He stretched the skin left and right with his fingers, deepening his frown when he saw the wrinkles really were starting to etch into his skin.

Maybe he just thought Potter was cute because Draco had gotten so ugly. He cringed.

…

It had been awhile since Harry had returned to Godric's Hollow. He occasionally visited his parents' graves, but that priority, too, had somehow fallen to the wayside. The guilt he felt for it lingered around him almost constantly. So he left a little early before he was supposed to meet Draco, and went to pay his respects.

His breath was a puff of steam as he sighed, gazing at their tombstone. It still filled him with a longing, a sadness that he didn't think he'd ever shake. He would never spend Christmas with them. They would never see him married. They never saw him graduate. It wasn't a good feeling. It never would be.

"See you're punctual as well."

Harry turned to see Draco approaching from across the graveyard, his clothing a dark silhouette against the snow while the rest of him blended in almost completely with the white backdrop.

"How did you know I was here?"

"Were supposed to meet not far from here. I knew your parents were buried here. Not a hard equation."

"How did you know my parents were buried here?"

"It's fairly common knowledge in the Wizarding World. Your parents died in Godric's Hollow, why wouldn't they be buried here?" He closed the distance between them and ended up to Harry's right side, looking down upon the graves, the wind playing with the small strands of silvery-blonde hair hanging over his forehead.

"Oh, yes. I suppose that makes sense," Harry said softly, turning back to look upon the stones as well, his voice a little tinged with misery.

"If I may…" Draco tried after moment. "I'm sorry for your loss. It never should have happened."

"You were only a year old. It wasn't like you could do anything to stop him."

"No, but showing support for him afterward counts as fairly disrespectful, I imagine," Draco gave a humorless chuckle, letting it die into the snow. "Dealing…. Dealing with death, myself, I can understand now… how hard it's been for you. And if anything, I apologize for my ignorance."

The wind felt like it was blowing right through Harry. "Yes, I imagine it must have been hard… burying your father."

Draco nodded, and his eyes looked a little wet. He sniffed. "Yes. Yes, it was very hard."

"How's your mum?"

"Worse. Sometimes, I find myself wondering if it would have been better if she'd died too." He shook his head. "That's terrible."

Harry frowned, patting Draco's arm. "Let's get away from here. It's much too sad."

"Actually, comparatively," Draco replied, following with a cynical smile. "This is about the same as everything else."

They made their way into a dim, warm, little pub that was empty with the exception of a few employees. A young waitress with dark red lips and black hair waved hello and retreated into the back.

"They know you here, obviously."

"I come here every time I visit my parents. The wait staff's gotten to know me pretty well."

They took a seat and the waitress set down a teacup that was steaming from the heat of the tea inside it.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realize you had a guest. Would you like some tea as well?"

"Yes, please," Draco said, nodding.

She smiled and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Her name is Miranda. A nice little waitress."

Draco leaned on his hand. "Do you like this nice little waitress?" He smiled, but there was something behind his eyes that puzzled Harry.

"She's only nineteen," Harry laughed. "Absolutely not."

"Ah, don't like the younger ladies, Potter?"

"And you don't like ladies at all."

"Well, have you tried to carry on a conversation with them? Surely you understand."

Harry chuckled. "I suppose." The conversation hadn't started how he expected. He was having a bit of fun. But he had business to conduct.

When they were perusing their menus, Harry folded his hands and eyed Draco. "Tell me something."

"Hm? What is it?"

"Do you know an Ashby Parker?"

Draco looked puzzled, chewing on his lip as he attempted to remember. "It sounds familiar. Why?"

"I found his name at Smith's house."

"Oh." Draco withered a little at the mention of Smith's name. Harry knitted his brows. There was still something so strange about Draco's relationship with the deceased Smith. "Yes, they went to a university together. He said they corresponded occasionally."

"Well…" Harry glanced at the menu nervously. "From what I found, it seemed they sent letters back and forth quite often. Daily. Sometimes more than once a day."

"O—oh…" Draco faltered, clearly it being news to him. Then, after a long moment. "Do you think he…"

"I don't know. There was nothing malicious in the letters. Seemed like a rather friendly correspondence. Did he know you?"

"I… I imagine he knew _about_ me. We never met face-to-face. I didn't think their relationship was so… so close."

Miranda returned to the table to take their order. They ordered. She left.

"I didn't think it would come as that much of a surprise. I apologize."

"Well, I suppose it doesn't." Draco ran his finger along the rim of his teacup. "Like I told you before, Zacharius had some difficulty making up his mind."

Harry felt pity welling in his stomach, so he decided to change the subject. "I'm surprised. You're drinking tea around me now. Must mean you trust me."

"I've pretty much been pouring my soul to you, and you had to figure that out by my drinking tea? Things aren't always as complicated as they seem." He sipped his tea as if to punctuate it. "Strange isn't it? If we were still schoolboys, this place would probably be in flames right now. Things change."

"I hate that your life had to take such a turn to get to this point."

"Don't fret. I'm sure I deserved it all."

"You shouldn't say things like that."

"What are you going to do, Potter? Curse me?" He smiled.

"Draco Malfoy, if I didn't know any better, I'd start to think you were a masochist."

"I'm sitting here with you, aren't I? I must be."

Miranda brought their food and they ate and made small talk. Draco did more pushing his food around on his plate than actually eating it though. Harry paid the ticket, even when Draco argued that naturally he should pay for his share, and with a goodbye to Miranda, the two exited out into the snowy night.

Draco hugged his arms around himself. "I must say I loathe winter."

"Me too. So, you and Smith…"

"Go ahead and ask. You've been wanting to all night," Draco replied giving him an almost playful shove.

"You weren't together when this whole thing happened, right?"

"Right. I wanted more; he didn't. I told you this. Now, what about you, Harry?"

Harry halted in the snow and it took Draco a moment to realize he'd fallen behind. "What?"

"Did you just call me Harry?"

"Don't you think we've gotten to this point?" Draco was playing nonchalant, but Harry was unsure as to whether the flush in his cheeks was from the cold or from embarrassment.

"I… suppose…. Draco." That felt strange. But it wasn't a bad strange. Harry moved a little quicker to catch up. "What did you mean?"

"Well, I'm not the only one with messy break ups."

"Oh…" Harry frowned. "Ginny and I broke up rather publicly. I don't really see if there's much else you need to know."

"Plenty of people had theories, I'm sure. But I want to know what really happened."

Harry wasn't sure why Draco was pushing the subject. Wasn't _he_ supposed to be asking questions?

"I don't see why-"

"Now who's being dodgy? Come now, tell me the truth. What happened?"

"She wanted me to marry her. I was married to my job. That's about it."

"Really?"

"Yes, really." Harry grimaced as Draco's eyebrows raised dubiously on his forehead. "She's dating Dean Thomas now."

"T- what?" Draco laughed. "That tosser that thinks he's somebody because he can pick up a pencil?"

Harry bristled. "Yes. Him."

"Mm, yes, you sound right impressed by him."

"I'd prefer not to talk about him. He's good for Ginny at least."

"And you don't think you are?"

The wind blew Draco's coat back as he looked to Harry for the answer.

"No… no, by the end of it, I wasn't."

"Yes, I see." He shook his head. "Anyway, this Ashby Parker fellow… what are you going to do about him?"

"I'm going to question him. Just see if he knew anything that might lead us to Smith's killer – whether it's him or not. I'm not going to make any assumptions."

"No, I wouldn't want you to do that."

"Draco?"

"Hm?"

"Are you sure… that you loved Smith? He just… he doesn't seem like he was very good for you." Harry didn't want to say it, but it had been the figurative elephant in the room.

Draco swallowed. "I think so. Most people didn't understand him. I like to think I did."

He looked incredibly sad.

"Well… I've got some notes to go through. I'll see if I can get in touch with Mr. Parker tomorrow."

Draco nodded. "Let me know what he knows."

"I will." A pause. "Are you going to be alright?"

Draco smiled, and he looked even sadder than before. It was ripping him apart. He understood those feelings. Every single one.

"I'll manage."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Despite his better judgment, Draco drank another potion that night. He found himself needing to, to prevent the way his face flushed at the mere thought of spending time with Harry Potter. When his logic managed to function again, he found himself rolling his eyes at the mere thought of getting worked up over Potter. He was simply lonely and in need of comfort. That was all it was. His mind was putting Potter in the place of Zacharius just because he was heartsick.

Right?

Draco leaned back on his mattress, gazing at the ceiling. When he really thought about it, it just grew more and more complicated. Smith was gone. Obviously, he was grieving that. He love Zacharius, even if Zacharius didn't share his feelings. And his whole world was falling apart. His mother was getting worse, his father was dead, and there wasn't one person in the Wizarding World who didn't think he was a bloodthirsty murderer.

Except Harry. Harry believed he was innocent.

And Harry and Draco had always had a complicated relationship. In school, Draco knew he'd done awful things to him, said even worse things to him. He had gone out of his way to make the Potter boy's life hell. Because he had rejected Draco's friendship. Merlin, they were only eleven. It was fairly childish to react in such a way. But they _were_ children, after all. And as they grew up, Draco found himself wondering more and more why he was treating Harry so badly. Why did it matter so much?

And now he was grown, and growing rather close to him. Actually, he felt like Harry Potter was one of the only staples left in his life, even though their relationship had changed. Perhaps he'd always had a lingering need to be around Harry Potter, because, no matter what emotion he was feeling, because he'd been there. After the war, and the multitude of deaths, and his life falling apart, Harry Potter was still there. It was comforting, in a way.

He sighed. Maybe Smith was right. Maybe Draco was just that desperate for someone to care that he clung to whomever he could. And Harry was one of those whomevers. The only whomever, really. Sure, Goyle was there, and he had a few other friends, but they were at arm's length. After Draco's mother went mad, his friends backed away slightly. He understood. Madness like that was genetic. And he'd been drinking a lot of calming draughts, which warped his personality rather drastically. They probably thought he'd go insane too.

And his mother had really gone mad.

He didn't like to think of that day, and with the potion burning in his chest, he didn't have to.

…

Ashby Parker lived in Caerphilly, in a small home far back from the main roads, hidden between two large, tree studded hills. It had taken Harry a long time to find it. The Portkey to the city had left him somewhere close to the center, and Parker lived far off the west side, all on his own. The snow was deep around Harry's feet as he made his way up the footpath to his front door.

He didn't know why he was nervous, but he spent a good long moment on his stoop, his hand raised to the door. He wasn't sure of what answers he would get, what he was walking into. And Ron was lingering behind him in the snow, unsure of the situation entirely. Harry felt a little better, knowing Ron was behind him, ready to jump in if anything went awry, but he still had doubts that Ron would be of much assistance in any other way. Ron seemed a bit more convinced that Draco had killed Smith.

Either way, it was going to be a touchy subject.

He knocked on the door.

Ashby Parker was a young-looking chap with eyes so blue they were almost violet. His hair was a mess of dark curls, splayed over his forehead in perfect little ringlets. His skin was pale, and his lips were a stark contrast of nearly red against white. He was thin, but naturally so, and all together, Harry had to admit – a rather beautiful looking man.

"May I help you?" he asked, and his voice wasn't what Harry expected. A voice that he thought might be a bit timid, like the smaller boy in front of him came out a rich baritone with a small hint of arrogance and valor. Then, he paused, and his eyes grew wide. He let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh of glee. "Merlin! You're Harry Potter!"

Harry nodded, a little embarrassed. "Yes. Yes, I am. Are you Ashby Parker?"

"Oh, my," The man was practically flailing. He looked so honored. "Yes, I'm Ashby Parker. My, my, this is such a treat, Mr. Potter. I'm a big fan of yours. You've done so much for half-blood and Muggle-born wizards. I'm so grateful."

"Oh, erm… you're… welcome," Harry said, feeling a little confused. It'd been awhile since he'd dealt with the idolatry that came with being Harry Potter. Most had grown rather used to him being around.

"Oh, uh, please, come in! Come in!" He gestured Ron and Harry inside.

His home was warm and comfortable and dressed for the holidays. Parker moved ahead of Harry and Ron, his hips carrying a light swivel that even Ron seemed to notice with a puzzled look, like he couldn't quite put two-and-two together. Parker was even thinner than Harry initially thought, and yet still so perfectly lean. There didn't seem to be a flaw on him in his dark maroon sweater and dark slacks.

"So, uh, are you… Muggle-born, Mr. Parker?" Ron asked.

"Half-blood," he replied, slipping into his kitchen to prepare tea for his guests. "My mother was a Muggle."

"And your father?" Harry asked.

Parker came walking back in, nodding for them to sit down as he set a tea set on the coffee table. "I… prefer not to talk about him, thanks. What brings you here, Mr. Potter? I mean, I'm certainly honored you're here, but why?"

"Well," Harry replied slowly, glancing at Ron for a moment. "I need to know about your relationship with… Zacharius Smith."

Parker's face went white. "Oh… my. Yes, it's such a tragedy that he passed away. We were schoolmates – not when he was at Hogwarts, mind you. I went to Durmstrang. But we went to a university together. He was quite wise, though, dare I say, a bit confused."

"Confused?" Harry asked, interested. "How so?"

"Oh, over lots of things. I was the leader of a Muggle Studies group at the university. Smith had some difficulties dealing with who he was. He discovered he was a half-blood awhile back, and he had a very hard time. I helped him realize that being a half-blood isn't a bad thing. It's a shame that he didn't really get to live his life free of his own scrutiny."

"I didn't know he was part Muggle," Ron murmured. "Sure didn't act like it in school."

"He didn't know. He discovered that he was born from a different father than the one who raised him."

"You're barking," Ron whispered, intrigued by the juicy gossip.

"Afraid not. His mother conceived him in a bout of infidelity."

"With a Muggle?"

Parker nodded.

"Well, in my… investigation, Mr. Parker, I noticed that you and Smith had been corresponding quite often before his death. What I am here for is information. I am trying to find out who was responsible for his death."

"Prophet says it was that no-good Death Eater, Draco Malfoy." Suddenly, Parker's voice sounded different, more poisonous. Harry found that it filled him with disgust.

"Well, Draco Malfoy isn't—"

"Please don't tell me he's tried to convince you otherwise, Mr. Potter. Certainly you're better than that."

Ron looked to Harry in surprise. Harry bristled.

"I'm… just trying to get the facts straight, Mr. Parker. Did you know if Smith was doing anything dangerous? Had any dangerous acquaintances?"

It was as if Ashby Parker's face had transformed. Someone who had been so handsome and charming looking before was suddenly looking very ugly, poisonous, like a creature that needed to be avoided at all costs.

"Why not ask that Death Eater he was having it off with?" he sneered. "He was doing awful things to Zacharius, corrupting his mind with those pure blood ideals."

Ron looked like he was going to faint. "Are you saying that Smith was shagging Malfoy?"

Harry felt his ears burn red, but he wasn't sure if it was because of rage or embarrassment for the Malfoy boy. "Now, I wouldn't want to jump to assumptions, Mr. Parker…"

"They always called us Mudbloods, blood traitors, you know?" Parker tried to elaborate. "When the pure bloods were the ones truly being fowl to their kind. Can you not agree?"

"I don't think anyone should be considered fowl to their kind, honestly."

Ron gripped Harry's arm. Harry knew that Ron recognized how irritated he was getting. Parker was talking ignorance. And, just like everyone else, had just assumed Draco Malfoy was guilty. It just infuriated him for some reason.

"Alright, alright," Harry coughed out, trying to keep his temper down. "Why don't we keep away from the topic of Draco Malfoy. Tell me what else you know about Smith. The night he passed away, were you going to visit him? What were you to Smith?"

"Zacharius and I were shagging, yes, if that's what you were wondering," Parker said, crossing his legs.

Ron looked completely lost, like he had no clue what to do, what to say. So he stayed silent. Which was probably for the best.

"Oh…" Harry muttered. "How long had you two been in a relationship?"

"Not long. I couldn't really give you a date."

"Well, you don't seem very worked up over his death…"

"Mr. Potter, if I may say so, we all grieve in different ways. And when Zacharius' body is released to be buried, I will be at his funeral. I hope you, as an Auror, will make sure that Death Eater isn't."

"Death Eaters are gone, Parker," Harry argued. "They went the way of Voldemort."

The kettle in the kitchen began to whistle. They all ignored it, trapped in the tension of the moment.

"Well, Mr. Potter. I really hate to hear that you believe that."

…

"I don't like him."

Harry and Ron were making their way over to the Portkey to go back to the Ministry, and Harry still had a sick feeling in his stomach over the entire conversation.

"Well, don't start making assumptions just because he's a bit loony-"

"Ah, but it's okay if I do that about Malfoy?"

"Harry, don't get snippy with me…"

"I'm sorry," Harry apologized genuinely with a sigh. "That prat put me on edge."

"Don't let him get to you, Harry. Some didn't walk away from the war like we did. Some didn't deal with it like we did."

"I know, but there's something about him that makes me really uncomfortable."

"I know what you mean, actually." Ron shuddered. "Something very strange about him."

Then, after a pause as they finished their trek to the Portkey. "Was Malfoy really… you know… _with_ Smith?"

Harry lied. "I don't know. I don't think that really matters."

Ron shrugged. "I don't know. If he was, it would explain why Parker was so angry at him."

Ron had a point. But the nonsense that Parker had been spouting seemed to be more than just common jealousy, especially since he'd started shagging Smith decidedly _after_ Malfoy did.

"I need to think on all of this more. Something strikes me about him. I think there's more to him than that."

They grabbed the Portkey and reappeared at the Ministry in a matter of moments.

"What's so attractive about Smith anyway?" Harry grumbled. "He was right infuriating in school. What makes him so special?... I mean, if he was with… both of them. Which we don't know for sure." Harry was a bad liar. But Ron was also fairly gullible.

"I don't know. I'm not attracted to men. Maybe it's something weird, like those insufferable girls in school. They always had boyfriends. Some people like to be in relationships with people like that, I suppose."

"It shouldn't be that complicated."

"Neither should've your relationship with Ginny, but it was."

"Touché." Harry frowned. The remark was true, and he admitted it, but a little uncalled for. It felt like a punch to the stomach.

"Every relationship is complicated," Ron tried to soften the blow after he realized the effect on Harry. "Sometimes they work; sometimes they don't."

"Yes, but… I'm just not sure about Smith…"

Because Smith's relationship with Draco seemed to be toeing the line of abuse. Draco was completely submissive to him – when he'd once been a cocky bastard. He had… _changed_ Draco. At least, Harry thought he might have. He hadn't really spoken to Draco in a long time. All the horrible things that had happened to him could have very well have been behind his behavior, but Harry was unsure. Something really told him Smith had something to do with it. To think he deserved all the bad things that happened to him… it just didn't sit well with Harry.

"Well, Harry, he's dead. There's not much else we can do about that. Our job is to find out who did it, whether he deserved it or not."

"I know," Harry sighed. "I know."

…

"No, I never met him," Draco said with a shake of his head.

Harry looked down into the coffee Draco had made. He usually drank tea, but Draco had promptly made it when he realized he'd run out of tea.

"Why do you ask?" Draco finally asked with a puzzled look.

"Well… he's not very… fond of you, that's for sure," Harry said, gripping the mug, feeling it warm his hands.

"Not many people are, Harry. It's not shocking."

"Yes, but most of those people have met you," Harry replied with humor. Draco bowed his head with a laugh.

"So kind, Harry. So kind. So why doesn't he like me? Did he tell you?"

"Well… it's rather complicated. Tell me, what was your relationship with Smith like when you two broke it off? Was he angry? Did he ever say anything cruel to you?"

"Cruel?" Draco murmured, his eyes wide, almost childlike. "I never really thought he said anything cruel."

"Nothing? It must have been a rocky breakup. You two were rather close, right?"

Draco took a long time drinking his coffee, then set his mug gently down on the table. "Have you ever been in a relationship with another man, Harry?"

Harry's face went bright red. "What? N-no."

"Men are hormonally programmed to be more interested in sex than romance. Our relationship started out as strictly sexual. He wanted it to remain that way. I didn't. So he broke it off. I can only imagine that the only thing that really made him angry would be losing the partner – but I'm sure he made up for in my absence. I can't imagine I was his greatest lay."

Harry shrunk back a little in his chair. There it was again, the beating-himself-up when it came to Smith. Harry still had to force himself past the initial question.

"So you're saying that… all he wanted from you was sex?"

"I'm not as foolish as I seem."

"You don't _seem_ foolish," Harry argued.

Draco softened a little. "Now you're actually being kind. Can't say I'm used to it."

"Just from me or from everyone? Including Smith?"

"What are you implying?"

Harry bothered at his lip then took a sip of coffee. It was a little bitter.

"I'm just saying that… that I'm concerned… with… how he treated you."

Draco stared at him for a long moment. Then, his voice was barely audible:

"Concerned? Over me?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. I'm concerned."

"…Why?"

The word actually hurt Harry. Did he really think he didn't deserve anyone's concern? "Because… because you're… my friend."

"Oh," Draco stammered. "That… that's strange, isn't it? Don't you think that's strange?"

"Maybe when I was a child, but not now. You're different now. We're both different now."

Draco took a shuddering breath. "Oh, you have no idea."

"What do you mean?"

Draco's cheeks flushed pink and he went back to his coffee. "It doesn't matter. So this chap doesn't care for me, hm? Do you… do you think he killed Zacharius?"

"I… I can't make any assumptions with him. But… I don't care for him. Something in my gut doesn't trust him. He's far too scathing to certain subjects, a bit too secretive in others. I'm going to have a full investigation."

"You can't give me any more than that?" Draco argued.

"It's an investigation. As much as I don't like it, you're still a suspect. I can't just spill all the details I know…"

"But you _know_ I didn't do it!"

"I _think_ you didn't do it. I don't have the proof to say either way. But my instinct and my interactions with you say that you didn't. Unfortunately, that's not enough to win a court case."

Draco looked strung out. He ran his hands through his hair, some pieces falling out of place. His hands were shaking. Harry swallowed.

"Are you alright?"

He nodded rather hastily. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm fine. I just need to… to brew a—a potion." He headed over to his cauldron and turned on the burner. "Merlin, Zacharius must have been sleeping with him. I don't li-like to think about things like that."

He began chopping ingredients hastily.

"Calm down," Harry started, though Draco was ignoring him.

"And if he did kill Zacharius and he finds out you're my friend, he'll probably kill you too—" He was just yammering on and on, nonsense and worry.

Then, with his hands still shaking, his hand slipped in dropping the ingredients into the cauldron, burning his hand on the heated copper. He wailed, pulling away, clutching his hand. Harry rushed across the kitchen and grabbed Draco by the wrist, dragging him to the sink and putting his hand under the cold water from the tap. He held it there for a matter of minutes, both their chests heaving in the adrenaline of the moment.

"He's not going to kill me. I'm not going to leave. I'm going to solve this case," Harry stated, trying to make eye contact with Draco, but he was too busy staring at his hand. "Did you hear me?"

He nodded, still not lifting his head. The water was still running. Harry was holding his wrist.

"Yes, yes, I heard you." He lifted his head and his eyes looked lost and terrified. "I wish I could believe you."

"Why can't you believe me, Draco?"

"I don't know. Patterns, I suppose. Everyone I care about is ripped away from me. It's not always in their control…" His voice trailed away and he was staring at Harry with fear in his eyes.

"Well, trust me in that I'll do everything in my power to prevent that."

Draco nodded shakily again. He was visibly trembling.

"What are you so afraid of, Draco? What is it?" Was it Smith? Had Smith dug that deep into his skin and made him so insecure? Was it Parker? Was it the entire bloody Wizarding World?

Harry didn't know, because he was too distracted by the fact that Draco Malfoy was kissing him.


End file.
